• 


THE 


TRANSFORMATION  OF  JOB 


A  TALE   OF  THE   HIGH  SIERRAS 


•By  FREDERICK  YIN  ING  FISHER. 


DAVID  C  COOK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

ELGIN,  ILL.,  AND 
36  WASHINGTON  ST.,  CHICAGO. 


COPYRIGHT,  1900, 
BY  DAVID  C.  COOK  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 


If  one  will  take  the  trouble  to  tramp  with  staff  in  hand  the  high  Sierras,  he 
will  find  not  only  the  Yosemite,  but  Gold  City  and  Pine  Tree  Ranch,  though 
perhaps  they  bear  another  name.  Most  of  the  quaint  characters  of  this  tale 
still  dwell  among  the  vine-clad  hills.  To  introduce  to  you  these  friends  that 
have  interested  the  author,  and  to  tell  anew  the  story  of  the  human  soul,  this 
work  is  written. 

Out  of  love  of  never-to-be-forgotten  memories  of  Pine  Tree  Ranch,  the 
author  dedicates  this  book  to  him  who  once  welcomed  him  to  its  white  porch, 
but  who  now  sleeps  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  mountains  —  Andrew  Maiden. 

FREDERICK  VINING  FISHER. 


THE  TRANSFORMATION  OF  JOB, 

A  TALE   OF  THE   HIGH   SIERRAS. 


'By  FREDERICK    FINING    FISHER. 


CHAPTER  I. 
THE  NEW  ARRIVAL  AT  GOLD  CITY. 

E    stage    was    late    at    Gold    City. 
It    always    was.      Everybody    knew 
it,    but    everybody    pretended    to   ex 
pect  it  on  time. 

Just  exactly  as  the  old  court-house  bell  up 
the  hill  struck  six,  the  postmistress  hur 
riedly  opened  her  door  and  stood  anxiously 
peering  up  the  street,  the  loafers  who  had 
been  dozing  on  the  saloon  benches  shuffled 
out  and  leaned  up  against  the  posts,  the  old 
piano  in  the  Miners'  Home  began  to  rattle 
and  a  squeaky  violin  to  gasp  for  breath, 
while  the  pompous  landlord  of  the  "  Palace 
Hotel."  sending  a  Chinaman  to  drive  away  a 
dozen  pigs  that  had  been  in  front  of  his 
door  through  the  day,  took  his  post  on  the 
sidewralk  to  await  his  coming  guests  —  who 
generally  never  came. 

There  was  a  time  when  Gold  City  had 
been  a  great  town  — 

"In  days  of  old, 
In  days  of  gold, 
In  days  of  forty-nine." 

The  boys  often  hung  around  the  saloon 
steps  and  listened  with  gaping  mouths  while 
Yankee  Sam  and  the  other  old  men  told  of 
the  golden  age,  when  the  streets  of  Gold 
City  were  crowded  and  Tom  Perry  made  a 
fortune  in  one  day  and  lost  it  all  gambling 
that  night;  when  there  was  more  life  in 
Gold  City  than  'Frisco  could  shake  a  stick 
at;  when  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe 


came  in  on  the  stage  and  mined  all  day. 
danced  all  night  and  went  away  rich. 

But  Gold  City,  now,  was  neither  large  nor 
rich.  The  same  eternal  hills  surrounded  her 
and  the  same  great  pine  trees  shaded  her  in 
summer's  heat  and  hung  in  white  like  sen- 
tinals  of  the  past  in  the  winter's  moonlight. 
But  the  sound  of  other  days  had  died  away. 
The  creek  bed  had  long  since  yielded  up  its 
treasure  and  lay  neglected,  exposed  to  the 
heat  and  frost.  The  old  brick  buildings 
rambling  up  the  street  were  still  left,  but 
were  fast  tottering  to  decay.  Side  by  side 
with  the  occupied  buildings,  stood  half- 
fallen  adobes  and  shattered  blocks  filled 
only  with  the  ghosts  of  other  years. 

Up  on  the  hill  rose  the  court  house,  the 
perfect  image  of  some  quaint  Dutch  church 
along  the  Mohawk  in  York  State.  Gray  and 
old.  changeless  it  stood,  looking  down  in 
silent  disdain  on  these  California  buildings 
hastening  to  an  early  grave.  Here  and  there, 
hid  by  pines  and  vines,  up  the  dusty  side- 
hill  roads,  one  caught  glimpses  of  pretty 
cottage  homes,  where  dwelt  the  few  who. 
when  the  tide  had  turned,  were  left  stranded 
In  this  far-off  California  mining  town. 

Yes,  Gold  City  was  of  the  past.  Her 
glory  had  long  since  departed.  Yet  some 
how  everyone  expected  its  return.  The  old 
men  read  the  'Frisco  papers,  when  they 
could  get  them,  and  grew  excited  when  they 
heard  that  silver  had  fallen  and  gold  had 
a  new  chance  for  life.  The  night  that  news 
came,  Yankee  Sam  ordered  a  treat  for  the 
whole  crowd  and  politely  told  the  saloon- 
keeper  that  he  would  settle  shortly,  when 


THE    TBANSFOKMAT1ON   OF   JOB. 


the  boom  came.  Possibly  some  great  capit 
alist  might  come  in  any  day  and  buy  up 
the  mines  and  things  would  boom.  He 
might  be  on  the  stage  any  night.  That  is 
the  reason  the  whole  town  came  out  regu 
larly  to  meet  the  stage,  marveled  if  it  was 
late,  and  gambled  on  the  probability  that  a 
telegram  from  'Frisco  had  held  it  for  a 
special  train  of  "  bigbugs."  That  is  why  the 
hotel-keeper  drove  the  pigs  away  and  pre 
pared  for  business. 

They  had  done  that  thing  now  in  Gold 
City  so  long  it  was  beginning  to  be  second 
nature;  and  yet  deeper  was  getting  the 
sleep,  and  the  only  thing  that  could  rouse 
the  town  was  the  coming  of  the  stage  with 
its  possibilities. 

The  stage  was  later  than  usual  this  night. 
So  late  the  old-timers  were  sure  Joe  must 
have  a  passenger.  As  it  was  fifty  miles 
over  the  plains  and  foot-hills  that  Joe  had 
to  come,  there  was,  of  course,  plenty  of 
chance  of  his  being  late.  In  fact,  he  never 
was  on  time.  They  all  knew  that.  But  to 
think  that  Joe  would  be  two  whole  hours 
back  was  a  little  unusual  for  a  town  where 
nothing  unusual  ever  happened.  The  big 
colored  porter  at  the  Miners'  Home  was 
tired  of  holding  his  bell  ready  to  ring,  the 
loungers  on  the  benches  in  front  of  the 
corner  grocery  had  exhausted  their  yarns, 
when  the  dust  up  the  street  on  the  hill 
caused  the  barefooted  boys  to  stop  their 
games  and  stand  expectant  in  the  road  to 
watch  Joe  arrive. 

With  a  shout  and  a  flourish,  the  four 
horses  came  tearing  around  the  court-house 
corner,  plunged  relentlessly  down  the  hill 
and  dragged  the  rickety  old  coach  up  to  the 
hotel,  with  a  jerk  that  nearly  upset  the  poor 
thing  and  brought  admiration  to  every 
body's  eyes.  Fortunately  for  the  coach, 
that  was  the  only  time  of  day  the  horses 
ever  went  off  a  snail's  pace.  The  dinner 
bell  at  the  Miners'  Home  clanged  vigorously, 
the  piano  in  the  saloon  opposite  set  up  a 
clatter,  the  crowd  hurried  around  the  dust- 
enveloped  coach  to  see  if  they  could  dis 


cover  a  passenger,  while  the  red-faced  land 
lord  shouted,  "  This  way  to  the  Palace 
Hotel,  gentlemen!" 

To-night,  when  the  dust  cleared  away,  for 
the  first  time  in  weeks  the  crowds  discov 
ered  a  passenger.  In  fact,  he  was  out  on 
the  brick  sidewalk  before  they  saw  him. 
Pale-faced,  blue-eyed,  with  delicate,  clear- 
cut  features,  clad  in  a  neat  gray  coat  and 
short  trousers,  which  merged  into  black 
stockings  and  shoes,  with  a  black  tie  and 
soiled  white  collar,  all  topped  off  with  a 
derby  hat  and  plenty  of  dust,  a  wondering, 
trembling  lad  of  twelve  stood  before  them. 
Such  a  sight  had  not  been  seen  in  Gold  City 
in  its  history.  A  city  lad  dropped  down 
among  these  rough  miners  and  worn-out 
wrecks  of  humanity! 

"Well,  pard,  who  be  yer?"  at  last  asked 
a  voice;  and  a  dozen  echoed  his  query. 

With  a  frightened  look  around  for  some 
refuge,  such  as  the  deer  gives  when  sur 
prised,  the  new-comer  answered,  "  I  am  Mr. 
Arthur  Teale's  boy,  and  I  want  to  see  him;" 
and,  turning  to  the  landlord,  asked  if  he 
would  please  tell  Mr.  Teale  his  boy  had 
come. 

Not  a  man  moved,  but  each  glanced  sig 
nificantly  at  the  other.  Yankee  Sam,  a 
sort  of  father  to  the  town,  who.  at  times, 
felt  his  responsibility,  when  not  too  over 
come  by  the  hot  stuff  at  the  Miners'  Home, 
now  stepped  up  and  interviewed  the  lad. 

Mr.  Teale's  son,  was  he?  And  who  was 
Mr.  Teale,  and  where  did  he  come  from, 
and  why  was  he  traveling  alone? 

Standing  there  in  the  evening  twilight,  on 
the  rough  brick  walk  in  front  of  the  Palace 
Hotel,  to  that  group  of  rough-handed  men 
in  unkempt  locks  and  woolen  shirts  and 
overalls,  to  those  shirt-sleeved,  well-oiled, 
red-faced  bar-keepers,  with  the  landlord  in 
the  center,  the  passenger  told  his  story. 

He  told  of  a  home  in  the  far  East;  of  how, 
one  day  long  ago,  his  father  started  away  out 
West  to  make  his  fortune;  how  he  patted 
him  on  the  head  and  said  some  day  he 
should  send  for  him  and  mamma  — but  he 


THE    TEANSFOEMATION    OF   JOB. 


never  did.  The  little  fellow  faltered,  as  he 
told  how  his  mother  grew  sick  and  his 
grandfather  died;  and  how,  after  a  time, 
he  and  his  mother  had  started  to  find  father, 
and  over  the  wide  prairies  and 
high  mountains  and  dusty  des 
erts,  had  traveled  the  long  jour 
ney  in  search  of  husband  and 
father. 

The  young  eyes  filled  with 
tears  —  yes,  and  some  older, 
rough  ones  did,  too,  that  had 
been  dry  for  years  —  as  he  told 
how  mother  had  grown  weaker 
and  weaker;  and.  when  they  had 
reached  the  California  city  and 
the  summer's  heat  had  climbed 
up  the  mountain  side,  she  had 
died;  and,  dying,  had  told  him 
to  go  on  and  find  Gold  City  and 
his  father.  So  he  had  come,  and 
"  Would  some  one  please  tell 
Mr.  Teale  his  boy  was  here?" 

That  night  there  was  great 
excitement  in  Gold  City.  Groups 
of  men  were  talking  in  under 
tones  everywhere.  With  a  prom 
ise  to  try  and  find  his  father, 
Yankee  Sam  left  the  boy  sitting 
on  the  door-step  of  the  Palace; 
where,  hungry  and  tired,  he  fell 
asleep,  while  all  the  street  arabs 
stood  at  a  respectful  distance 
commenting  on  "  the  city  kid 
what  says  he's  Teale's  boy."  No 
one  thought  to  take  the  little 
wanderer  in.  No  one  thought  he 
was  hungry.  They  were  too  ex 
cited  for  that.  Teale's  kid  was 
here.  What  should  they  do  with 
him  and  how  could  they  tell  him? 

Did  they  know  Teale?  Yes,  they  did. 
Slim,  pale-faced,  the  picture  of  this  boy, 
only  taller,  fuller  grown,  he  had  come  to 
Gold  City.  With  ragged  clothes  that  spoke 
of  better  days,  he  had  tramped  into  town 
one  winter  night  through  the  snow  and 
begged  a  bed  at  the  Miners'  Home.  He  had 


struck  it  rich  for  a  time  down  by  Mormon 
Bar,  and  treated  all  the  boys  in  joy  over  his 
good  luck,  then  lost  it  all  over  the  card 
table  in  the  end.  Thrice  he  had  repeated 


Yankee 


that  experience.  In  his  better  moments  he 
had  talked  of  a  wife  and  blue-eyed  boy  in 
the  East,  then  again  he  seemed  to  forget 
them.  The  gaming  table,  the  drink,  the 
crowd  he  went  with,  ruined  him.  One  night 
the  boys  heard  cries  in  the  hollow  back  of 
"  Monte. Carlo,"  the  worst  saloon  and  gam- 


8 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF   JOB. 


bling  den  in  the  place;  when  morning  came 
they  found  Teale  and  a  boon  companion 
both  dead  there.  Who  was  to  blame?  No 
body  knew.  Under  the  old  pine  trees  on  the 
hill,  just  outside  the  graveyard  gate,  where 
the  respectable  dead  lay,  they  buried  them. 
And  now  Teale's  boy  was  come,  and  who 
should  tell  him,  and  where  should  he  go? 


CHAPTER  II. 

ANDREW  MALDEN. 

ANDREW  MALDEN  was  in  town  that 
night,  yet  no  one  thought  of  asking 
him,  the  hardest-hearted  man  in 
Grizzly  county.  Rich,  with  acres  to  spare, 
a  mill  that  turned  out  lumber  by  the  whole 
sale,  horses  that  could  outstrip  any  Buceph 
alus  in  the  county.  Either  from  jealousy 
or  some  cause,  the  world  about  Gold  City, 
Frost  Creek,  Chichilla,  all  hated  Andy 
Maiden. 

No  one  noticed  how  he  listened  to  the 
story,  how  he  glanced  more  than  once  at 
the  tired  traveler,  till  they  heard  him  order 
his  horses  at  moon-up,  order  the  landlord  to 
wake  the  boy  and  feed  him. 

When,  promptly  at  ten,  he  took  the  strange 
lad  in  his  arms  and  put  him  in  his  buck- 
board,  seized  the  reins  and  drove  toward 
Spring  Creek,  the  Pines  and  home,  the 
whole  town  was  more  dumfounded  than 
In  years,  and  the  landlord  said  he  guessed 
old  Andy  was  crazy.  Only  Yankee  Sam 
seemed  to  understand,  and  the  old  man 
muttered  to  himself,  as  he  turned  once 
more  to  the  saloon,  "Well,  now!  Andy 
thinks  it  is  his  youngster  come  back  again 
that  I  helped  lay  beneath  the  pines,  coming 
thirty  years  now." 

Sam  was  right.  It  was  the  dormant  love 
of  thirty  long-gone  years,  all  roused  again, 
that  stirred  the  old  man  that  night.  The 
lonely,  homeless  boy  on  the  "  Palace  "  door 
step  had  touched  a  heart  that  most  men 
thought  too  hard  to  be  broken  in  this  world 
or  the  next. 


Andrew  Maiden  was  not  a  bad  man,  if  he 
was  hard.  The  outward  vices  which  had 
ruined  most  men  who  had  come  to  Gold 
City  to  gain  the  world  and  lose  their  souls, 
never  touched  him.  That  craving  for  ex 
citement,  the  natural  heritage  of  hot 
headed  youth,  which  often  in  that  old  min 
ing  camp  lasted  long  after  the  passionate 
days  of  young  life  and  lit  the  glazed  eyes 
of  age  with  a  wild,  unnatural  fire,  never 
seemed  a  part  of  his  nature.  Other  men  fed 
the  fires  of  passion  with  the  hot  stuff  of  the 
"  Monte  Carlo,"  and  the  midnight  gaming 
table,  till,  tottering  wrecks  consumed  of 
self,  they  lingered  on  the  doorsteps  of  Gold 
City,  the  ghosts  of  men  that  were.  The 
world  of  appetite  was  a  foreign  realm  to 
him.  He  looked  with  contempt  on  men  who 
lost  themselves  in  its  meshes.  But  he  was 
a  hard  man,  the  people  saJd,  and  selfishness 
and  a  cold  heart  were  far  worse  vices  in  the 
eyes  of  the  generous-hearted,  rough  miners 
who  came  and  went  among  these  hills,  than 
what  the  polished,  cold,  calculating  money- 
getters  of  the  far-off  city  counted  as  sin. 
So  Andrew  Maiden  was  more  of  a  sinner 
in  the  estimation  of  Gold  City  than  Yankee 
Sam.  Perhaps  the  ethics  of  that  mining 
camp  were  truer  than  the  world  thinks. 
Perhaps  he  who  sins  against  society  is 
worse  than  he  who  sins  against  self. 

The  fact  was  that,  though  Andrew  Maiden 
had  grown  old  in  Grizzly  county,  and  no 
face  was  more  familiar,  no  one  knew  him.  He 
was  a  hard  man,  but  not  as  the  people 
meant.  There  are  two  kinds  of  stern  men 
In  this  world:  Those  who  are  without 
hearts,  who  take  pleasure  in  the  suffering  of 
others;  and  those  who,  repulsed  sometime, 
somewhere,  have  closed  the  portals  of  their 
inmost  souls  and  hid  away  within  them 
selves.  Such  was  the  "  Lord  of  Pine  Tree 
Mountain,"  as  the  boys  used  to  call  him. 

Once  he  was  a  merry,  happy,  strong  moun 
tain  lad  in  the  old  Kentucky  hills,  where  he 
had  helped  his  father,  a  hardy  New  Eng- 
lander,  make  a  new  home.  He  had  a 
heart  in  those  old  days.  He  loved  the 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF    JOB. 


hills  and  forests;  loved  the  romping  dogs 
that  played  around  him  as  he  drove  the 
logging  team  to  the  river-mill;  aye,  more 
than  that,  he  had  loved  Mary  Moore.  She 
was  bright  and  sweet  and  pretty,  a  be 
witching  maid,  who  seemed  all  out  of  place 
on  the  frontier.  He  loved  to  hear  her  talk 
of  Charleston  Bay  and  the  Berkshire  Hills, 
and  of  the  days  when  she  danced  the 
minuet  on  Cambridge  Green.  Once  he  asked 
her  to  marry  him.  It  was  the  month  the 
war  broke  out  with  Mexico.  The  frontiers 
men  were  slinging  down  their  axes  and 
swinging  their  guns  across  their  shoulders. 
She  laughed,  and  said  that  if  Andy  would 
go  and  fight  and  come  home  a  hero,  she 
would  marry  him  —  perhaps. 

So  he  went.  Tramped  over  miles  and 
miles  of  Mexican  soil,  fought  at  Monterey 
and  Buena  Vista,  endured  and  almost  died 
—  men  said  for  love  of  Yankeedom;  he  knew 
it  was  for  Mary  Moore. 

The  war  over,  he  came  back  a  hero,  and 
Col.  Maiden  was  named  with  old  Zach  Tay 
lor  by  tried,  loyal  men.  But  Mary  Moore 
was  gone.  She  had  found  another  hero. 
Gone  to  Massachusetts,  so  they  said. 

That  night,  Andy  Maiden  left  the  Ken 
tucky  hills  forever.  The  news  of  gold  in 
California  was  in  the  air.  He  would  join 
the  mad  procession  that,  over  plain  and 
isthmus,  was  going  hither.  He  would  go 
as  far  from  the  old  life  as  deserts  and 
mountains  would  put  him. 

So  he  came  to  Gold  City.  With  a  dili 
gence  far  more  systematic  than  the  others, 
he  had  washed  the  gold  from  Frost  Creek 
and  off  Mormon  Bar.  Other  men  lost  all 
they  found  in  daylight  over  the  gaming  table 
at  midnight.  He  never  gambled.  All  the 
others  who  succeeded  went  below  to  the 
great  city  or  back  to  the  States  to  enjoy 
their  gains.  He  cared  naught  for  the  city, 
he  hated  the  States;  he  never  went.  In  a 
solitary  mountain  spot  amid  immeasurable 
grandeur,  he  buried  himself  in  his  lonely 
cabin.  Yet  he  was  not  a  hermit.  He 
mingled  with  the  crowd;  he  sought  its 


suffrage  for  public  office;  yet  he  was  not  of 
it.  He  was  a  mystery  to  all.  They  elected 
him  to  office  and  continued  to  do  so;  why, 
they  never  knew,  unless  it  was  because  he 
could  save  for  them  when  others  could  not. 

At  last  he  married  a  farmer's  girl  from 
the  plains,  who  had  come  up  there  to  teach 
the  Frost  Creek  school.  She  failed  as  a 
teacher.  She  was  born  for  the  kitchen  and 
farm.  Andrew  Maiden  saw  it.  She  would 
make  him  as  good  a  helpmate  as  any,  better 
than  the  Chinese  women  and  half-breeds 
with  whom  some  of  his  neighbors  consorted, 
so  he  married. 

The  mines  were  giving  out.  His  keen  eye 
saw  there  were  mines  above  ground  as  well 
as  below.  He  quietly  left  off  placer  mining, 
drew  out  some  gold  from  a  hidden  purse, 
and,  before  the  world  of  Gold  City  knew 
it,  had  nine  hundred  acres  on  Pine  Tree 
Mountain,  a  big  saw-mill  going,  a  nice  ranch 
home,  and  barns  like  folks  back  in  the 
States. 

At  last  a  baby  came  — a  baby  boy;  almost 
the  first  in  Grizzly  county.  The  neighbors 
would  have  cheered  if  they  dared.  Judge 
Lawson  did  dare  to  suggest  a  celebration, 
but  the  people  were  afraid  of  the  stern  man 
on  Pine  Tree  Mountain. 

Oh,  how  he  loved  that  boy!  His  wife 
looked  on  with  wonder,  for  she  thought  he 
knew  not  what  stuff  love  was  made  of. 
It  was  not  long.  A  few  short  years,  and  the 
lad,  who  seemed  so  strangely  merry  for  a 
son  of  Andy  Maiden,  grew  pale  and  took 
the  fever  and  died;  and,  where  the  pine 
trees  stoop  to  shade  the  mountain  flowers 
in  hot  midsummer,  strange  Yankee  Sam  and 
Andy,  all  alone,  laid  him  to  rest.  There  was 
no  clergyman.  The  "  Gospel  Peddlers,"  as 
the  miners  called  them,  had  not  yet  come  to 
the  hills  to  stay.  Just  as  Sam  was  putting 
the  soil  over  the  rough  box,  Andy  stopped 
him  and  muttered  something  about  the  boy's 
prayer.  He  must  say  it  for  him,  and  he 
whispered  in  a  broken  voice,  "  Now  I  lay 
me  down  to  sleep,  I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul 
to  keep." 


10 


THE    TEANSFORMAT1ON    OF    JOB. 


That  was  the  last  prayer  Andrew  Maiden 
had  uttered.  Many  years  had  come  and 
gone;  more  and  more  he  had  lived  within 
himself.  He  used  to  go  to  the  boy's  grave 
on  holidays.  Now  he  never  went.  For 
years  his  wife  had  lived  with  him  and  kept 
his  house  and  prepared  his  food,  and  grown, 
like  him,  silent  and  apart  from  all  around. 
She  died  at  last  and  he  gave  her  a  high- 
toned  funeral;  had  a  coffin  from  the  city 
and  a  preacher  and  all  that.  She  had  died 
of  loneliness.  He  did  not  know  it.  She  did 
not  realize  it.  He  went  on  as  if  it  was  a 
matter  of  course.  The  old  house  was  kept 
up  carefully;  a  Chinaman,  as  silent  as  him 
self,  kept  it  for  him,  and  a  corps  of  men 
kept  him  busy  at  the  mill. 

He  was  rich,  the  people  said;  he  was  mean 
and  grinding,  the  men  muttered;  and  yet  he 
prospered  when  others  failed.  Men  envied, 
feared,  hated  him.  Now  he  was  growing 
old  and  men  were  wondering  who  would 
have  his  riches  when  he  was  gone.  He  had 
no  kin  this  side  the  Ohio;  and,  for  aught  he 
knew,  nowhere.  His  wife's  nephews  and 
cousins,  pegging  away  in  these  hills,  were 
beginning  to  build  air-castles  of  days  when 
the  Pine  Tree  mill  should  be  theirs. 

Such  was  the  old  man  who  drove  along  in 
the  moonlight,  past  Mormon  Bar  and  over 
Chichilla  Hill,  holding  a  sleeping  lad  in  his 
arms;  and  feeling,  for  the  first  time  in 
years,  the  heart  within  him. 

It  was  nearer  dawn  than  midnight  when 
the  tired  team,  which  had  been  slowly 
creeping  up  the  mountain  road  for  hours, 
turned  into  the  lane  above  the  mill  and 
waited  for  their  owner  to  swing  open  the 
gate  which  barred  the  way  to  the  private 
road  leading  through  the  oak  pasture  to 
Pine  Tree  Ranch  and  home.  It  was  one  of 
those  matchless  nights  that  come  only  in 
the  mountains,  when  the  world  is  flooded 
with  a  soft,  silvery  light  and  the  great  trees 
stand  out  transfigured  against  the  sky, 
amid  a  silence  profound  and  awe-inspiring. 

It  had  been  a  long  ride;  aye,  a  long  one 
indeed  to  Andrew  Maiden.  He  had  trav 


eled  across  more  than  half  a  century  of  life 
since  they  left  Gold  City.  His  own  child 
hood,  Mary  Moore,  old  Kentucky,  had  all 
come  back  to  him.  Then  he  had  thought  of 
that  silent  grave  down  beyond  Gold  City, 
and  of  the  large  part  of  his  life  buried  there. 
He  turned  to  the  lad  at  his  side,  sleeping 
unconscious  of  life's  ills  and  disappoint 
ments,  of  which,  poor  boy,  he  had  already 
had  his  share.  The  sight  of  the  innocent  face 
thrilled  the  old  man.  In  his  slumbers  the 
boy  murmured,  "  Mamma,  papa;"  and,  turn 
ing,  the  old  man  did  a  strange  thing  for 
him.  He  leaned  over  and  kissed  the  lad, 
and  whispered,  "Mamma,  papa!  Boy,  as 
long  as  Andy  Maiden  lives,  he  shall  be  both 
to  you." 

When  they  reached  the  house,  he  hushed 
the  dogs  to  silence,  bade  Hans,  who  stared 
astonished  at  his  master's  guest,  to  take  the 
horses;  and,  lifting  the  sleeping  form,  car 
ried  it  into  his  room,  and,  gently  removing 
coat  and  shoes,  laid  the  boy  in  the  great 
bed,  while  he  prepared  to  stretch  himself  on 
a  couch  near  by. 

That  night  a  new  life  came  to  Andrew 
Maiden  and  the  Pine  Tree  Ranch. 


CHAPTER       III. 

THE  HORSE-RACE. 

i^-^-TER    darsn't    do    it!    Yer   old    Mal- 
V      den's   slave,    yer    know    yer   are, 
and     yer    darsn't     breathe     'less 
he  says  so." 

It  was  in  front  of  the  Miners'  Home  in 
Gold  City,  and  the  speaker  was  an  over 
grown,  brawny,  low-browed  boy  of  some 
seventeen  years,  who,  in  ragged  clothes 
and  an  old  slouch  hat,  leaned  against  the 
post  that  helped  support  the  tumble-down 
roof  of  that  notorious  establishment.  In  front 
of  him.  barefooted  and  in  overalls  rolled  up 
over  well-browned  legs,  old  blue  cap,  astride 
a  little  black  pony  whose  eyes  rolled  appre 
ciatively  as  he  lovingly  half  leaned  upon  her 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


II 


neck,  sat  Job  Maiden,  as  the  store-keepers 
called  him;  or  "Andy's  Tenderfoot,"  as  the 
boys  dubbed  him. 

You  would  not  have  dreamed,  had  yon 
seen  him,  that  this  brown-skinned,  tall  fif 
teen-year-old,  who  rose  in  his  saddle  at  this 
remark  and  spoke  out  sharp  and  strong, 
was  the  same  pale-faced  city  lad  who  had 
come  in  the  stage  three  years  ago,  homeless 
and  friendless.  The  mountains  had  done 
wonders  for  him;  the  pallor  had  gone  from 
his  cheeks;  the  sun  had  tanned  his  shapely 
limbs;  the  wild  life  of  nature  and  the  still 
rougher  world  of  humanity  had  roused  all 
his  temper  and  passion.  Yet,  withal,  there 
was  the  touch  of  another  world  in  his  face. 
No  stranger,  at  second  view,  would  have 
taken  him  for  a  native  born.  He  had  known 
a  different  realm,  and  it  had  left  its  trace 
in  a  high  brow,  a  fine  face,  a  clearer  eye 
than  one  usually  saw  on  the  streets  of  the 
mining  camp. 

"  Yer  darsn't  do  it!"  leered  again  the  same 
contemptible  fellow.  "  Yer  a  city  kid  an' 
hain't  got  sand  'nuff  to  make  an  ant-hill.  I 
hearn  tell  yer  get  the  old  man  to  button 
yer  clothes,  and  yer  cry  in  the  dark  — 
guess  it's  so,  ain't  it,  tenderfoot?" 

At  this  remark  the  crowd  of  loungers 
around  broke  forth  into  cheers,  and  Job's 
eyes,  usually  so  blue,  flashed  fire.  He 
sprang  from  Bess'  back,  and,  in  an  instant, 
had  struck  the  bully  a  blow  that  sent  him 
reeling  back  into  the  arms  of  Yankee  Sam. 
A  moment,  and  a  general  m61ee  seemed  im 
minent,  when  Dan  Dean  stepped  up  and 
called  a  halt.  He  was  the  smoothest,  most 
affable,  meanest  fellow  in  town,  nephew 
by  marriage  to  the  lord  of  Pine  Tree  Moun 
tain,  and,  as  he  had  always  boasted,  the 
lord  that  was  to  be. 

Job  had  always  felt,  ever  since  he  came  to 
Grizzly  county,  that  Dan  was  his  mortal 
enemy,  yet  he  had  always  been  so  sly  Job 
had  never  been  able  to  prove  him  guilty  of 
any  one  of  the  thousand  petty  annoyances 
he  was  sure  were  instigated  by  him. 

Taking  Job  by  the  arm.  Dan  now  led  him 


off  to  one  side,  while  the  crowd  were  laugh 
ing  at  the  blubbering  bully  backing  up  the 
street  and  threatening  all  sorts  of  vengeance 
on  "  that  tenderfoot." 

All  the  trouble  was  over  a  horse-race.  It 
was  coming  off  next  Sunday  down  at 
Coyote  Valley,  four  miles  below  town.  Pete 
Wilkins  had  offered  his  horse  against  all 
Grizzly  county,  and  Dan  Dean  had  boasted 
that  he  had  a  horse,  a  black  mare  —  or  at 
least  his  Uncle  Andy  had  —  that  could  beat 
any  horse  Pete  could  trot  out.  Pete  had 
dared  him  to  appear  with  the  mare;  and 
Dan,  well  knowing  he  could  not  get  her,  wras 
doing  his  best  to  induce  Job  to  steal  away 
with  her  and  run  the  race  for  him.  "  Me 
and  yer  is  cousins,  yer  know,  seein'  yer  call 
the  old  man  uncle  and  he's  my  sure-enough 
uncle;  so  we's  cousins,  and  we  ought  to  be 
pardners;  now  yer  run  the  race,  get  the 
gold  nugget  the  fellows  at  the  Yellow  Jacket 
have  put  up.  and  I'll  get  Pete's  bet.  and  my! 
won't  we  have  a  lark!  Fact  is,  yer  don't 
want  fellers  to  think  yer  a  baby,  I  know; 
and,  as  for  its  being  Sunday,  I  say  the  bet 
ter  the  day  the  better  the  deed.  Come,  Job. 
I  jest  want  to  see  the  old  black  mare  come 
in  across  the  line  and  you  on  her!  My! 
what  a  hot  one  yer'll  be!  The  fellers  will 
never  call  yer  tenderfoot  again!" 

It  was  a  big  temptation  to  Job.  the  big 
gest  the  boy  had  ever  known  —  to  beat  Pete; 
to  show  off  Bess;  to  prove  he  was  no  "ten 
derfoot"  or  "kid"  any  more.  But— oh,  that 
but!  —  how  could  he  deceive  Mr.  Maiden! 
And  then,  Sunday,  too! 

"  Gold  nugget!  Whew!  Such  a  chance!" 
insidious  Dan  still  kept  crying,  till  Job  shut 
his  teeth  together,  turned  from  his  mother's 
face  which,  somehow,  persisted  in  haunting 
him  just  then,  laughed  a  sort  of  hollow 
laugh,  and  said  with  an  oath  —  the  first  he 
had  ever  uttered  out  loud  —  that  sure  he 
would  be  there  and  show  these  Gold  City 
bullies  and  Pete  and  the  whole  crowd  he 
was  nobody's  slave.  Yet,  as  he  said  it,  there 
came  a  sort  of  feeling  into  his  soul  which 
he  repelled,  but  which  yet  came  back  again, 


12 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF   JOB. 


that  he  was  now  indeed  a  slave  —  a  slave  lo 
Dan,  a  slave  to  the  i^vil  One. 

Coyote  Valley  was  all  alive.  Vaqueros 
from  the  foot-hill  ranches  were  tearing  up 
and  down  the  dusty  road  along  Coyote 
Creek  from  Wilkins'  ranch  to  the  foot  of 
the  valley,  buck-boards  loaded  with  Mexi 
cans,  Joe's  stage  creaking  beneath  the 
weight  of  half  the  roughs  of  Gold  City, 
groups  of  excited  miners  on  foot,  were  mak 
ing  their  way  as  fast  as  possible  to  Wilkins' 
old  hay  barn,  which  had  been  turned  into 
a  combination  of  saloon  and  grand  stand. 
Under  the  shade  of  an  immense  live-oak 
just  west  of  the  barn,  the  big  waiter  at 
the  Miners'  Home  was  running  an  oppo 
sition  saloon  to  the  one  inside,  with  a  plank 
on  two  kegs  for  a  bar.  The  center  of  the 
barn  was  already  filled  with  dark-skinned 
Seuoritas  and  tall,  gawky  miners  dancing  to 
the  music  of  a  squeaky  violin. 

The  air  was  filled  with  dust  and  bets  and 
oaths,  when  on  that  strange  Sunday  morn 
ing  Job  galloped  up  Coyote  Valley  and 
pulled  up  in  time  to  hear  Dan's  voice  in 
high  pitch  cry  out: 

"  There  she  is,  the  best  mare  in  Grizzly 
county;  ten  to  one  against  the  crowd!  Come 
in,  Job;  come  up,  boys!  Let's  have  a  drink 
around  to  the  success  of  the  Hon.  Job  Mai 
den,  the  slickest  rider  in  all  the  hills!" 

Almost  before  he  knew  it,  Job  was  hauled 
bodily  up  to  the  bar  and  had  a  beer  glass  in 
his  hand.  How  strange  he  felt!  How  queer 
it  all  was!  He  had  been  in  the  mountains 
three  years,  but  this  was  his  first  Sunday 
picnic. 

Andrew  Maiden,  though  he  had  no  re 
ligion,  had  always  seen  that  Job  went  to 
Sunday-school  at  the  Frost  Creek  School. 
To-day  he  had  ostensibly  started  for  there. 
But  this  was  very  different  from  the  old  log 
school-house. 

How  different  Job  looked  from  the  rest! 
He  wore  "  store  clothes "  and  a  neck-tie. 
In  the  rush,  something  dropped  on  the 
floor.  He  looked  down  and  picked  it  up. 


with  a  quick  glance  around,  while  a  great 
lump  came  into  his  throat.  It  was  a  little 
Testament,  his  mother's,  the  one  she  had 
given  him  the  day  she  died,  and  there  was 
the  old  temperance  pledge  he  had  signed  in 
a  boy's  scrawling  hand.  He  was  supposed  to 
be  at  Sunday-school,  so  he  had  been  obliged 
to  carry  the  book. 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  then  he 
jammed  it  in  his  pocket  out  of  sight.  He 
hated  it,  he  hated  himself.  The  step  was 
taken;  he  took  the  glass,  he  drank  with  the 
rest.  He  left  the  bar  with  a  proud  air. 
He  was  a  man.  He  would  win  that  race  or 
die. 

All  day  long  the  violin  squeaked,  the  clat 
tering  feet  resounded  on  the  barn  floor,  the 
kegs  were  emptied  into  throats,  and  races 
of  all  kinds  —  fat  men's  races,  women's 
races,  old  men's  races  —  followed  each  other. 
At  last,  the  great  event  was  called  —  Mai 
den's  mare  against  Pete's  noted  plunger. 
The  Vaqueros  cleared  the  way,  a  pistol  shot 
in  the  distance  announced  they  had  started, 
a  cloud  of  dust  that  they  were  coming.  It 
was  not  a  trot;  it  was  a  neck-and-neck  run, 
such  as  Job  had  taken  hundreds  of  times 
over  the  great  pasture  lot  on  Pine  Tree 
Ranch.  He  was  perfectly  at  home.  With 
arms  clasped  around  her  neck,  he  urged 
Bess  on;  he  sang,  he  coaxed,  he  cheered 
her.  Bess  knew  that  voice,  and,  catching 
the  passion  of  the  hour,  fairly  flew.  Faster 
and  faster  she  went,  but  faster  and  faster 
came  Pete  at  her  heels— now  Job  felt  the  hot 
breath  of  the  other  horse  on  his  cheek  —  now 
they  fell  back  —  now  they  were  close  behind 
him.  They  were  near  the  line  —  but  a  hun 
dred  paces  and  the  old  oak  would  be  passed. 
Pete  was  desperate;  the  fire  of  anger  was 
in  his  eyes.  Job  heard  one  of  Pete's  excited 
friends  shout,  "  Throw  him,  Pete!"  The 
thought  of  awful  danger  flew  through  Job's 
mind:  The  angry  man  would  do  it  — Bess 
must  go  faster.  She  was  white  with  foam 
now,  but  go  she  must.  He  hugged  her 
closer;  he  sang  — how  out  of  place  the  piece 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF   JOB. 


13 


seemed!  'Twas  the  song,  though,  that  always 
roused  her,  so  he  sang  it,  as  so  often  he  had 
sung  it  in  the  great  oak  pasture  of  the  home 
ranch  —  "  Palms  of  victory,  crowns  of  glory 
I  shall  wear,"  — and,  singing  it,  dashed 
across  the  line  the  victor,  while  the  mob 
yelled  and  Dan  hugged  Bess  and  the  waiter 
offered  a  free  treat  to  the  whole  crowd.  Job 
Maiden  had  won  the  race,  the  gold  nugget 
was  his,  but  oh,  how  much  he  had  lost! 


CHAPTER  IV. 
JANE. 

"  Wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by,  Jennie, 
Wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by." 

IT  WAS  the  clear,  high  voice  of  a  rosy- 
cheeked,  black-eyed,  short-skirted,  bare 
footed  maiden  that  sang,  who,  with 
her  long  black  tresses  blowing  in  the  after 
noon  breeze,  and  a  pail  on  her  arm,  was 
gayly  skipping  down  the  narrow  road  that 
separated  the  fence  of  Pine  Tree  Ranch 
from  the  endless  forest  that  stretched  away 
towards  the  big  trees  and  Yosemite. 
"  '  Wait  till  the  clouds  '  —  gracious  sakes, 
boy!  what  did  you  scare  me  for?"  Jane  Reed 
cried,  as  out  of  the  dark  woods,  around  a 
sugar  pine,  a  tall,  tanned  lad  strode,  with 
gun  over  his  shoulder,  and  a  long-eared  dog 
at  his  heels. 

"  Oh,  just  for  ducks!"  said  Job  Maiden, 
•who,  after  a  celebration  of  his  sixteenth 
birthday,  was  returning  from  one  of  his 
favorite  quail  hunts  with  '/  Shot,'  his  only 
playmate  on  Pine  Tree  Ranch. 

"Where  did  you  get  those  shoes,  sissy?" 
said  the  boy,  looking  at  her  bare,  bronzed 
feet. 

"  From  the  Lord,"  quietly  answered  the 
girl. 

"Humph!"  said  Job  with  a  sneer,  "the 
only  lord  I  know  is  the  one  of  Pine  Tree 
Mountain,  and  the  one  that  is  to  be  —  that's 
myself —  and  I'm  mighty  sure  he  or  I  never 
made  such  looking  things." 


At  this,  the  girl  made  an  unsuccessful  at 
tempts  to  run  past  him,  then  sank  down  on 
the  ground  in  a  big  cry. 

With  the  heartless,  contemptuous  air  of 
a  boy  who  scorns  tears  and  girls,  Job  stood 
there;  and,  posing  dramatically,  sang  in  a 
falsetto  voice: 

"  Wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by,  Jennie, 
Wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by." 

I  wonder,  if  his  mother  could  have  come 
back  from  her  far-off  grave  by  the  Sacra 
mento,  whether  she  would  have  known  that 
insolent,  rude  fellow  standing  there  as  her 
pretty,  blue-eyed  boy  whom  she  had  so  ten 
derly  loved. 

How  quickly,  when  a  fellow  starts  down 
hill,  he  gets  under  way!  That  first  Sunday 
picnic  had  borne  its  fruit.  The  Sunday- 
school  at  Frost  Creek  never  knew  him  now. 
That  little  Testament  was  at  the  bottom  of 
his  trunk.  Fear  of  the  old  man  had  saved 
him  from  an  open  life  of  wrong,  and  a  cer 
tain  pride  made  him  disdain  to  be  on  a  level 
with  Dan  Dean  and  the  Gold  City  gang. 
Andrew  Maiden  saw  the  change  and  yet  did 
not  understand  it.  He  never  talked  with 
people  enough  to  hear  the  rumors  afloat 
of  the  Sunday  horse-races,  or  of  the  mid 
night  revel  on  the  Fourth  of  July  at  the 
Yellow  Jacket.  The  night  that  Bess  came 
home  saddleless  and  riderless,  with  the 
white  foam  on  her,  and  when  he  searched 
till  near  morning,  to  at  last  find  Job 
stretched  in  a  stupor  by  the  wayside  down 
the  Chichilla  road,  he  thought  the  boy's 
after  story  was  true  —  that  story  of  a 
frightened  runaway  —  and  little  knew  tt 
was  Pete  Wilkins'  whisky  that  had  thrown 
him. 

Ah!  it  was  only  yesterday  the  old  man 
had  said,  "  She  was  a  traitor,  and  so  is  the 
boy.  I  have  loved  him,  fed  him,  sheltered 
him,  and  yet  all  he  cares  for  is  to  get  my 
money  some  day.  The  world's  all  alike!" 
And  Andrew  Maiden  shut  the  door  of  his 
heart,  which,  a  few  short  years  ago,  had 
swung  open  for  the  homeless  lad. 


14 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


It  was  this  boy,  touched,  alas!  not  alone 
by  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  moun 
tains,  but  by  the  shame  and  sin  of  the 
men  who  dwelt  among  them,  that  now 
laughed  at  a  poor  girl's  feeble  wrath.  He 
laughed,  and  then  a  spark  of  innate  good 
nature  and  manhood  touched  him,  and,  pick- 
Ing  up  the  pail,  he  muttered  an  apology  and 
offered  to  escort  the  maiden  home. 

Very  soon  the  clouds  did  roll  by,  and 
under  the  sky  of  twilight  the  pair  walked 
leisurely  along  the  trail  that  passed  out  of 
the  main  road,  up  across  Sugar  Pine  Hill 
and  down  towards  Blackberry  Valley  and 
old  Tom  Reed's  cabin,  where  Jane  was  both 
daughter  and  mistress. 

This  girl  was  so  different  from  the  crowd 
he  had  seen  at  Wilkins'  barn  and  down  at 
Mike's,  that  he  could  not  joke  her;  he  could 
only  play  the  gallant,  and  he  rather  liked  it. 

It  was  a  long  way  over  the  hill  and  many 
stops  to  rest  —  at  Deer  Spring,  Squirrel  Run 
and  the  Summit  —  and  the  picking  up  cones 
made  it  longer.  It  was  just  as  they  crossed 
the  hill  that  the}'  heard  a  crackling  of  the 
branches  above  them,  and  both  looked  up 
to  be  struck  with  terror.  Climbing  from  one 
great  tree  to  another  was  the  low,  dark 
form  of  a  mountain  lion.  He  did  not  notice 
them.  Job  motioned  silence  and  shrunk 
into  the  bushes.  The  girl  instinctively  fol 
lowed  and  drew  up  close  to  him.  With  gun 
cocked  and  bated  breath,  they  waited  and 
waited;  but  whether  the  wind  was  away 
from  them,  or  the  vicious  animal  had  some 
thing  else  in  view,  he  slunk  away  in  the 
trees  and  out  toward  the  Gulch,  where  he 
made  his  lair. 

For  a  half  hour  Jane  and  Job  sat  with 
hearts  beating  fast,  while  both  tried  to 
make  a  show  of  being  brave.  How  strange 
it  seemed  to  Job  to  be  thus  protecting  a  girl! 
He  felt  a  queer  interest  in  her;  he  did  not 
know  what  it  was.  He  took  her  arm  a  little 
later  to  help  her  over  the  rocks,  down  the 
hill.  He  lingered,  in  a  bashful  way,  at  the 
spring  at  the  foot  of  the  path  to  see  that 
she  got  to  the  cabin  door  safely,  then  went 


around  by  the  main  road  home,  so  slowly 
and  so  thoughtfully  that  the  moon  was  high 
when  Shot  barked  a  response  to  Carlo's 
bark  as  he  entered  the  gate. 

That  was  not  the  last  time  he  saw  Jane 
Reed.  A  something  of  which  he  had  never 
heard  and  of  which  he  was  barely  conscious 
drew  him  to  her.  That  autumn  he  often 
walked  home  from  school  with  her.  When 
the  snows  cauae  and  the  logging  sleds  were 
passing  every  day  loaded  for  Andrew  Mai 
den's  mill,  he  always  managed  to  find  Jane 
at  Sugar  Pine  Hill  at  all  odd  sorts  of  hours 
and  give  her  a  ride  to  the  mill  on  the  top 
of  the  logs,  and  walk  back  with  her,  as  he 
let  the  horses  tug  the  old  sled  slowly  up  the 
mountain.  The  only  rival  he  had  was  Dan, 
his  pretended  friend  but  certain  enemy. 

It  was  at  the  time  of  the  big  snow. 
Indian  Bill,  the  rheumatic  old  native  trap 
per  whose  family  had  perished  at  the  mas 
sacre  of  the  Yosemite  some  years  before,  and 
who  ever  since  had  lived  in  a  little  cabin  on 
the  edge  of  the  Gulch,  said  it  was  the  big 
gest  in  two  hundred  moons. 

When  Job,  shivering  and  chattering, 
looked  out  of  the  little,  narrow,  cheerless 
upstairs  room  which  he  called  his  own,  he 
found  himself  apparently  in  the  first  story. 
He  gazed  on  the  endless  drifts  of  snow  that 
rolled  away  in  a  silent  sea  over  barn  and 
fences,  with  only  the  shaggy,  white-bearded 
pines  shaking  their  faces  at  him  above  the 
limitless  white.  The  little  ravine  back  of 
the  house,  where  the  milk-house  stood,  had 
leveled  up  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  the 
chicken  corral  was  missing,  and  only  the 
loft  of  the  old  barn  rose  above  the  snowy 
waves. 

What  a  busy  day  that  was  of  shoveling 
tunnels,  and,  with  the  full  force  of  the  mill 
men  and  all  the  logging  teams,  breaking  a 
path  up  the  road  to  the  logging  camp!  By 
night  the  whole  country  round  was  out. 
Dan  was  there  riding  the  leader,  and  reach 
ing  out  to  get  snowballs  from  the  high  bank 
to  throw  at  Jane,  who  had  clambered  up  on 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF    JOB. 


15 


the  vantage  point  of  an  old  shed  and  was 
watching  the  queer  procession,  with  its 
shouts  and  rattle  of  bells  and  chains,  push 
its  way  up  the  road. 

That  night  old  Andy  Maiden  gave  a  treat 
to  all  the  hands  at  the  mill,  with  hard  cider 
and  apples  and  nuts  a  plenty,  and 
even  had  Blind  Dick,  the  fiddler, 
who  lived  in  Tom  Reed's  upper 
cabin,  to  help  them  make  merry. 
That  is,  Andy  gave  the  treat,  but 
his  foreman  was  host;  he  never 
came  himself.  Jane  was  there  and 
Dan  monopolized  her.  He  knew 
her  well,  so  that  night  he  never 
danced,  never  drank;  but  Job, 
poor  fellow!  asked  her  to  dance 
and  she  refused  him;  then  he  of 
fered  her  cider,  and  her  great 
black  eyes  snapped  fire  and  she 
turned  from  him.  He  was  mad 
with  rage.  He  drank.  He  danced 
with  the  Alviso  girls,  the  lowest 
Mexicans  in  the  county.  He 
glared  after  Dan  as  he  saw  him 
start  off  with  Jane. 

The  cider,  the  jealousy  in  his 
soul,  or  the  evil  in  both,  probably, 
made  him  start  after  them.  A 
something  whispered  to  take  the 
short-cut  across  to  the  junction 
of  the  road  and  Blackberry  Val 
ley  trail,  and  face  them  and  have 
it  out.  He  hurried  stumbling 
over  the  drifts.  He  hid  in  the 
shade  of  a  great  tree.  Up  the 
road  he  heard  them  coming, 
heard  Dan  say,  "  Oh,  well,  I  was 
afraid  Uncle  Andy  would  be 
fooled  when  he  took  that  kid  in.  Regular 
chip  of  the  old  block;  his  father  went 
to  the  bad,  and  he  is  going  fast.  He  came 
from  the  city  slums;  none  of  the  brave, 
true  blood  of  the  mountains  in  his  veins. 
Steer  clear  of  him,  Jane."  Heard  an  in 
distinguishable  reply  in  Jane's  voice,  felt 
a  blind  passion  rising  within  him,  clinched 
his  fists,  started  with  a  bound  for  the 


dark  shadows  coming  up  the  road,  felt 
a  terrible  blow  on  his  head,  and  —  well, 
it  must  have  been  a  long  while  before  he 
thought  again.  Then  he  was  lying  down  in 
the  depths  of  a  snow-drift,  where  he  had 
fallen  when  he  started  so  angrily  for  Dan 


He  hid  in  the  shade  of  a  tree. 

and  had  struck  his  head  against  the  limb 
of  the  old  oak  at  the  turn  and  been  hurled 
back  twenty  feet  down  through  the  snow 
on  the  rock  of  the  creek  bed. 

He  tried  to  rise,  but  could  not.  A  broken 
limb  refused  to  act.  He  called  for  help, 
but  the  cry  rose  no  higher  than  the  snow 
bank.  He  was  in  an  open  grave  of  white 
on  the  sharp  rocks  and  bitterly  cold  ice  of 


16 


THE    TBANSFORMATIOX    OF    JOB. 


the  stream.  He  shivered  and  shook,  then 
gradually  a  sort  of  delightful  repose  began 
to  steal  over  him.  At  first  it  felt  pleasant, 
then  he  realized  he  was  freezing,  freezing  to 
death!  Death!  The  thought  struck  terror  to 
his  heart.  Death!  It  was  the  last  thing  for 
which  he  was  ready.  Memory  was  unnatur 
ally  active.  The  New  England  hills,  the  white 
church,  grandfather,  mother,  home,  all 
came  back  to  him.  He  was  mother's  boy 
again  as  in  those  old  days  before  hate  and 
drink  and  sin  had  hurt  his  life.  For  a  mo 
ment  the  tears  came.  He  forgot  himself, 
he  struggled  to  rise.  He  would  go  to 
mother  and  put  his  head  in  her  lap  and 
tell  her  he  loved  her  still.  Then  the 
clouds  crept  over  the  stars,  the  bitter  wind 
whistled  above  the  snow.  Mother  — ah! 
He  could  not  go  to  her;  she  had  gone  forever 
out  of  his  life;  never  in  this  world  would  he 
see  her  again.  And  then,  like  a  knife  that 
cut  him  through  and'  through,  came  the  bit 
ter  consciousness  that  there  was  no  hope  of 
seeing  mother  in  the  world  to  come;  that 
long  ago  he  had  gone  away  from  her  and 
the  old  innocent  life  of  childhood  so  far 
that  if  she  could  come  back  from  her  grave 
by  the  turbid  Sacramento,  she  would  not 
even  know  her  boy. 

The  night  chill  crept  over  him;  the  tears 
froze  on  his  cheeks.  He  thought  of  Dan 
and  Jane  and  the  life  he  had  lived,  and  love 
froze  in  his  heart.  And  then,  alone  in  the 
snow-drift,  dying,  he  hated  Dan,  he  hated 
Jane,  he  hated  all  the  world  and  hated 
God,  and  waited,  with  the  fear  of  a  lost 
soul,  the  outer  darkness  that  was  coming  — 
coming  nearer  and  nearer. 

They  found  him  there,  numb  and  uncon 
scious,  long  after  midnight,  Hans  and  Tony, 
Maiden's  men,  who  had  searched  for  him. 

The  snow  had  melted  on  the  hill-tops  and 
the  flowers  were  peeping  above  the  earth, 
when  Job  threw  aside  his  crutches  and 
whistled  to  Shot  that  the  time  had  come  for 
another  quail  hunt. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  CAMP  MEETING. 

66~T"T'S  THE  biggest  thing  out  — beats 
a  horse-race!  My!  it's  a  sight! 
Don't  miss  it,  boys.  See  you  all 
down  at  Wilkius',  sure." 

It  was  "  Nickel  John  "  who  was  speaking, 
the  fellow  that  the  boys  said  would  do 
any  evil  deed  for  a  nickel.  It  was  down 
in  front  of  the  Miners'  Home  among  a  great 
crowd  of  the  boys,  in  the  midst  of  whom 
stood  Job  as  an  interested  listener. 

The  coming  event  was  no  less  than  a 
Methodist  camp-meeting  down  in  Coyote 
Valley  the  next  Sunday.  Of  course  he  would 
go,  said  Job,  as  he  rode  home;  anything 
nowadays  to  avoid  being  alone  with  himself. 
Up  at  the  mill  he  told  the  fellows  about  it; 
and,  when  they  dared  him  to  be  there  and 
go  to  the  altar,  he  vowed  that  he  would 
do  it. 

"  All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus'  name ! 
Let  angels  prostrate  fall." 

Strong  and  clear,  a  great  volume  of 
sound,  it  rang  out  on  the  air  that  never-to- 
be-forgotten  Sunday  morning,  as  Job  rode 
Bess  up  the  Coyote  road  to  Pete  Wilkins' 
barn,  now  transformed  into  a  sanctuary 
where  the  Sierra  District  Camp-meeting  was 
well  under  way. 

"  Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem. 
And  crown  him  Lord  of  all." 

The  rafters  of  the  burn  shook  with  the 
music,  while  it  rolled  out  through  the  great 
side  and  rear  doors,  thrown  open  so  wide 
that  the  old  building  looked  like  outdoors 
with  a  roof  on.  The  big  structure  was  full 
to  the  doors,  while  around  it  all  sorts  of 
vehicles  and  nags  were  hitched  To  the 
right  and  left  rows  of  tents  stretched  away. 
Just  outside,  under  the  old  oak,  a  portly 
dame  was  dishing  out  lemonade  for  a  nickel 
to  late-comers,  while  a  group  of  boys  were 
playing  leap-frog.  Job  struggled  through 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


17 


the  outer  crowd  and  pushed  inside,  only  to 
find  himself  iu  the  center  of  "the  gang," 
who  greeted  him  with  a  wink  and  a  whis 
per,  "  The  speakin'  racket's  next!" 

"  Oh.  that  with  yonder  sacred  throng 
We  at  His  feet  may  fall !" 

How  grand  it  sounded!  Such  a  host  of 
voices  were  singing!  Par  up  in  front,  on  a 
platform,  surrounded  by  several  preachers, 
gray-haired  and  young,  in  varied  attire, 
from  the  conventional  black  suit  and  white 
tie  to  a  farmer's  outfit,  was  a  little  organ, 
and  a  familiar  form  was  sitting  back  of  it 
and  getting  its  old  bellows  to  roll  out  the 
hymn.  The  organist  was  no  other  than 
Jane,  and  her  face  flushed  as  she  caught 
Job's  eye. 

Just  then  the  music  stopped  and  a  sweet- 
faced  old  man  stepped  up  nnd  said, 
"  Brethren  and  sisters,  we  have  knelt  at  the 
Lord's  table;  let  us  now  tell  of  the  Lord's 
love.  Let  us  have  fifty  testimonies  in  the 
next  few  minutes.  Let  us  sing,  '  I  love  to 
tell  the  story  of  Jesus  and  his  love.' " 

The  scene  faded  away;  the  music  was  a 
far-off  echo,  the  barn  was  gone.  Job  was 
back,  a  lad,  in  the  old  New  England  church; 
grandsir  was  there,  and  mother,  and  the 
old,  old  friends,  and  Ned  Winthrop  was 
poking  him  with  a  pin.  That  song!  —  how  it 
brought  them  all  back! 

Just  then  he  heard  a  murmur  behind  him, 
and  looked  up  to  see,  near  the  front,  a  trem 
bling  old  man  rise  and  begin  to  speak.  He 
told  of  boyhood  days;  he  told  of  a  young 
man's  sins;  of  how  one  day  oc  the  old 
camp  ground  back  in  York  State  he  had 
learned  that  God  loved  him  and  could  make 
a  man  of  him.  Then  he  faltered  as  he  told 
a  story  of  sorrows,  and  how  at  last,  alone  in 
the  world,  he  awaited  the  angels  that 
should  bear  him  home. 

Job  trembled.  Unpleasant  memories  arose 
in  his  heart.  He  grew  pale  and  red,  then  bit 
his  lips  in  excitement.  He  wished  he  was  at 
home.  Testimony  followed  testimony.  Love, 
peace  and  joy  rang  through  all.  At  last 


Jane  rose  — could  it  be  possible?    He  hung 
on  every  word. 

"  Last  night,  down  there  at  the  bench,  the 
Lord  converted  my  soul.  I  have  been  a  poor 
sinner,  but  I  know  Jesus  loves  me,  and  I 
wish  —  I  wish,"  and  she  looked  over  to  the 
far  rear,  "you  would  let  him  save  you;"  and 
she  sat  down  in  tears. 

Job  was  wildly  angry.  "  The  mischief 
take  her!"  he  muttered.  And  Dan  leaned 
over  and  whispered,  "  See,  she's  gone  daft, 
like  the  rest!" 

The  testimonies  and  love-feast  were  over, 
a  prayer  that  made  Job  feel  as  if  Some  One 
great  and  good  was  near,  had  been  offered, 
and  then  it  was  announced  that  the  Rev. 
William  Pendergast  of  Calavero  circuit 
would  preach. 

"What  shall  it  profit  a  man,  if  he  gain 
the  whole  world  and  lose  his  own  soul?" 

It  was  a  young,  fresh,  boyish  face  that 
looked  into  Job's  as  the  speaker  uttered 
these  words.  Just  such  a  bright,  athletic, 
noble  fellow  as  every  true  boy  secretly 
wishes  to  be.  He  caught  Job's  attention  and 
held  it. 

This  was  a  very  different  thing  from 
what  he  had  thought  sermons  to  be.  The 
young  man  talked  of  life  here,  not  here 
after;  he  showed  how  a  man  may  live  in 
this  world  and  yet  live  a  lost  life;  have  gold 
and  lands,  and  yet  lose  all  love  and  hope  and 
peace  and  manhood.  He  pictured  the  man 
who  gains  wealth  and  grows  hard  and  love 
less,  and  Job  thought  of  Andy  Maiden;  he 
told  of  him  who  plunges  into  dissipation  and 
drink,  and  lingers  a  wreck  in  the  streets, 
and  Job  knew  he  meant  Yankee  Sam.  Aye, 
he  pictured  a  young  life  that  grasps  all  the 
world  and  forgets  right  and  God  and 
mother's  Bible  and  mother's  prayers,  and 
grows  selfish  and  the  slave  of  hate  and 
trembles  lest  death  come,  and  Job  thought 
of  himself  and  the  awful  night  in  the  snow 
and  wished  he  was  miles  away. 

But  wait!    They  are  singing: 

"  Come,  ye  sinners,  poor  and  needy, 
Weak  and  wounded,  sick  and  sore." 


18 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


They  have  cleared  the  mourners'  beiich 
and  are  giving  the  invitation: 

*'  Jesus  ready  stands  to  save  you, 
Full  of  pity,  love  and  power." 

Job  trembles.  Does  that  mean  him?  Tim 
Nolan  the  mill-man  leans  over  and  whispers 
almost  out  loud:  "Remember  your  bet, 
Job!" 

Poor  Job  would  have  given  all  the  gold 
in  the  Sierras  to  be  out  of  there.  All  the 
sins  of  his  life  rose  before  him,  all  his  con 
ceit  and  boasting  vanished.  He  was 
ashamed  of  Job  Maiden.  He  longed  to  sink 
somewhere  out  of  sight. 

The  preacher  was  talking  again;  the  old, 
old  story  of  the  Prodigal  Son  and  how  God's 
arms  are  always  ready  to  take  in  a  mother's 
lost  boy.  The  room  swam  before  Job's  eyes. 
The  crowds  were  flocking  to  the  altar,  the 
people  were  shouting,  the  boys  were  punch 
ing  him  and  saying,  "  Yer  dursn't  go!" 
Heaven,  hell,  sin  and  Christ  were  very  real 
to  him  all  of  a  sudden. 

"  All  the  fitness  he  requireth 
Is  to  feel  your  need  of  him." 

How  it  happened  he  never  knew,  but  just 
as  Dan  said,  "  Now,  let's  see  Job  get  re 
ligion,"  he  rose,  and,  striding  down  the  long 
aisle,  he  rushed  to  the  altar,  and  there,  just 
where  he  had  taken  his  first  drink  on  that 
awful  Sunday,  he  threw  himself  in  tears,  a 
big,  heart-broken  boy,  with  the  thought  of 
his  evil  life  throbbing  through  his  brain. 

It  was  late  that  night  when  Job  left,  the 
camp  ground,  flung  himself  across  Bess' 
back  and  started  home.  The  stars  never 
looked  down  on  a  happier  boy.  The  burden, 
the  hate,  the  bitterness  in  his  heart,  were 
all  gone.  A  holy  love,  an  exaltation  of 
soul,  an  awakening  of  all  that  is  best  in  a 
manly  life,  stirred  him.  The  past  was  gone; 
"  old  things  had  passed  away  and  all  things 
had  become  new."  The  world  was  the  same. 
Dan,  with  all  his  meanness,  was  in  it.  The 
saloon  doors  were  open,  the  gamblers  still 
sat  at  midnight  at  the  Monte  Carlo. 


Grizzly  county  had  not  changed,  but  he  had. 
A  new  life  was  his. 

As  he  galloped  down  the  road,  far  away 
he  heard  them  singing: 

"  Palms   of   victory,   crowns   of  glory,    I   shall 
wear," 

and  a  strange  feeling  came  over  him.  He 
took  up  the  refrain,  and,  looking  up  at  the 
stars,  he  seemed  to  see  his  mother's  face 
afar  off  among  the  flashing  worlds.  The 
tears  stole  down  his  cheeks,  tears  of  joy,  as, 
galloping  on  through  the  night  toward 
home,  again  he  sang: 

"  Palms   of   victory,    crowns   of   glory,    I    shall 
wear." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    DEANS. 

IT  WAS  a  little,  long,  low,  unpainted 
shanty,  with  a  rude  doorstep,  almost 
hid  amid  a  jungle  of  vines  and  over 
arching  trees  at  the  end  of  a  long  lane, 
where  Marshall  Dean  lived.  A  sallow-faced, 
thin  Kentuckian,  he  had  come  up  here  from 
the  plains  after  his  sister  married  Andrew 
Maiden,  in  the  hope  that  being  near  a  rich 
relative  would  save  him  from  unnecessary 
labor.  Andrew  Maiden  had  given  him  a 
good  place  at  the  mill,  but  he  found  it  too 
hard  on  his  muscles,  and  so  decided  to 
"  ranch  it."  Maiden  had  then  given  him  the 
old  Jones  ranch  and  a  start;  but  as  the 
years  drifted  by  he  had  not  succeeded 
in  raising  much  except  a  numerous  family 
of  dirty,  unkempt  youngsters  of  whom  Dan 
was  the  oldest  and  the  most  promising 
specimen,  the  one  who  had  inherited  his 
father's  pride  and  selfishness,  with  a  certain 
natural  shrewdness  and  sagacity  that  his 
mother's  family  possessed,  but  of  which  she 
had  failed  to  receive  much. 

While  Maiden's  wife  lived,  they  managed 
to  silently  share  in  the  income  of  Pine  Tree 
Ranch,  but  after  she  died  the  smuggling 


THE    TBANSFORMATJON    OF   JOB. 


19 


business  between  the  big  place  and  Dean's 
Lane  suddenly  stopped.  Nothing  ever  cut 
deeper  —  they  could  never  forgive  her  for 
dying.  At  last  they  settled  down  to  a  stolid, 
long  wait  for  the  old  man's  end.  The  chief 
theme  of  conversation  at  home  was  the  un 
certainties  of  life  for  the  "  old  miser,"  and 
the  sure  probability  of  their  move  some  day 
on  to  the  big  ranch,  though  not  one  of  them 
knew  what  they  would  do  with  it  if  they 
got  it.  Dan  felt  no  hesitation  about  telling 
this  at  school,  and  it  was  common  gossip 
of  the  county. 

But  alas!  the  night  Dan  came  home  and 
excitedly  told  the  family,  as  they  looked  up 
from  their  rough  board  table  and  Imcon  and 
mush  and  molasses,  that  "  the  old  man  had 
taken  Teale's  kid  in,  sure  he  had,"  conster 
nation  seized  them.  It  took  them  weeks  to 
rally;  and,  when  they  did,  for  the  first  time 
in  their  history  the  family  had  an  object  in 
life,  and  that  was  to  make  life  miserable 
for  Job. 

Unsuspecting  and  innocent,  the  twelve- 
year-old  lad  had  gone  over  to  play  with  the 
Dean  children,  as  he  would  at  any  home, 
till  the  time  when  petty  persecutions  cul 
minated  in  all  the  rude  youngsters  calling 
him  vile  names  and  throwing  stones  at  him, 
and  the  father  standing  by  and  drawling 
out,  "  Give  it  to  him,  the  ornery  critter!" 

Annoyance  followed  annoyance.  Job's 
pets  always  got  hurt  or  disappeared.  Dick, 
his  first  pony,  was  accidentally  lamed  for 
life;  the  big  dog  he  romped  with  was  found 
dead  from  poison.  All  the  mischief  in  the 
neighborhood  was  eventually  laid  at  Job's 
door.  For  a  long  time  the  boy  systeinatic- 
ally  avoided  the  Deans,  till  by  some  strange 
political  fortune  Marshall  Dean  was  ap 
pointed  postmaster  for  the  Pine  Mountain 
post-office.  That  was  a  gala  day  in  Deans' 
Lane.  Sally  Dean  had  a  brand-new  dress 
on  the  strength  of  it,  and  Dan  gave  himself 
more  airs  than  ever  before.  After  that  Job 
was  obliged  to  go  to  the  Deans'  twice  a 
week  for  the  mail,  and  more  than  once  went 
away  with  the  suspiciou  that  Andrew  Mai 


den's  mail  had  been  well  inspected  before  it 
left  the  office. 

The  wrath  of  the  Dean  family  reached  its 
culmination  on  that  Sunday  night  when  Dan 
came  home  with  the  news  that  Job  had  at 
tended  the  Coyote  Valley  camp-meeting  and 
had  been  converted;  "now  he  would  be  put 
ting  on  holy  airs  and  setting  himself  above 
folks."  That  night  in  Dean's  shanty  Sally 
and  Dan  and  "  Pap "  put  their  heads  to 
gether  to  plan  how  they  could  in  some  way 
make  Job  Maiden  backslide. 

It  was  toward  this  house  that.  Job  was 
making  his  way,  on  the  very  next  week, 
bound  for  the  semi- weekly  mail.  As  he  went 
up  the  path  old  Dean  himself  rose  to  meet 
him;  and,  putting  up  his  pipe,  remarked  on 
the  "  uncommon  fine  morning."  As  he 
pushed  open  the  shanty  door,  Mrs.  Dean 
and  fifteen-year-old  Sally  were  all  smiles. 
The  postman  had  brought  no  mail,  the 
former  said,  but  wouldn't  he  stay  and  rest? 
She  bad  heard  the  Methodists  were  having 
a  fandango  down  in  the  valley.  Queer  peo 
ple,  whose  religion  consisted  in  shouting  and 
jumping.  As  for  her,  she  believed  in  prac 
tical  religion;  she  paid  her  honest  debts  and 
didn't  set  herself  up  above  her  neighbors. 

Job  was  just  leaving,  when  Mrs.  Dean 
said: 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't  go  without  drinking  to 
Sally's  health  —  she's  fifteen  to-day.  See 
what  a  big  girl  she  is  —  what  rosy  cheeks 
and  big  hands!  Come,  we  have  the  finest 
cider  out;  just  drink  with  us  to  Sally's 
health." 

"  Why,  excuse  me,  ma'am,"  stammered 
Job,  quite  bewildered  by  this  sudden  good 
nature  and  the  invitation  to  drink.  Why  — 
I  can't  drink  any  motv  —  I  —  " 

"  Oh,  my!"  said  Mrs.  Dean.  "  You're  all 
straight!  This  won't  be  too  much,  if  you 
have  drank  before  this  afternoon." 

"Oh,  but  —  "  stammered  Job,  "I  don't 
mean  that.  I  don't  drink  any  more  —  I  have 
joined  the  Methodists  and  been  con 
verted." 

"  Such  a  likely  boy  as  you  gone  and  jined 


20 


THE    TBANSFORMAT10N   OF   JOB. 


the  fools!  Surely  Andy  Maiden  don't  know 
it,  does  he?" 

"  Why  —  no,"  stammered  Job. 

"  Waal,  now,  purty  feller  you  are,  to  take 
your  bread  and  butter  from  Andy  Maiden, 
and  then  go  and  disgrace  him  by  joinin'  the 
hypocrites  and  never  tellin'  him,  and  then 
comin'  round  here  and  refusin'  to  drink 
harmless  apple  juice  with  our  Sally!  Put- 
tin'  yourself  up  above  respectable  people 
like  us,  whose  parents  lie  in  respectable 
gi-aves.'" 

Job  faltered.  That  speech  cut.  The  hot 
blood  came  to  his  brow.  A  week  ago  he 
would  have  lost  his  temper,  but  now  he  bit 
his  lip  and  kept  still. 

Then  the  woman's  mood  changed.  She 
wished  him  no  ill  luck,  she  said,  and  surely 
he  would  be  good  enough  if  he  was  as  good 
as  his  Master,  and  she  "  'lowed  that  Christ 
drank  wine  at  a  wedding  spread  onct. 
Surely  he  wouldn't  refuse  a  little  cider  with 
Sally?" 

Perhaps  it  would  be  best.  Perhaps  he 
was  trying  to  be  too  good.  Aye,  perhaps 
one  drink  would  give  him  a  good  chance  to 
escape.  So  Job  thought,  and  he  took  the 
glass.  But  then  came  a  vision  of  that  bar 
at  the  horse-race,  of  that  cider  at  Maiden's 
mill,  and  the  winter  night  and  the  snow,  and 
his  hand  in  his  pocket  touched  the  old  tem 
perance  pledge  he  had  signed  again  on  Sun 
day  night  when  he  got  home,  and  up  from 
his  heart  went  a  silent  cry  for  help.  At 
that,  he  seemed  to  hear  a  voice  saying, 
"  With  every  temptation,  a  way  of  escape," 
and  he  said  in  a  firm  voice,  as  he  sat  down 
the  glass: 

"  Best  wishes  for  Sally,  Mrs.  Dean,  but  I 
cannot  drink  the  cider." 

Just  then  a  shrill  cry  from  outside  sent 
both  Sally  and  her  mother  flying  to  help 
rescue  three-year-old  Ross,  whose  father 
was  hauling  him  out  of  the  well. 

In  the  excitement,  Job  started  home  with 
a  light  heart,  singing  to  himself: 

"  Yield  not  to  temptation,  for  yielding  is  sin, 
Each  victory  will  help  you  some  other  to  win." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  OLD  MAN'S  BIRTHDAY. 

THEY  were  sitting  together  at  Pine 
Tree  Ranch,  on  the  side  porch  of  the 
neat  little  white  farmhouse,  over 
which  the  vines  were  trained  and  from 
which  the  well-kept  lawn  and  flower-bor 
dered  walks  rolled  away  to  the  white  picket 
fence.  It  was  a  late  August  evening,  which 
had  merged  from  sunset  into  moonlight  so 
softly  and  quietly  that  one  hardly  knew 
when  the  one  began  and  the  other  ended. 
Job,  in  old  coat  and  overalls  and  a  broken 
straw  hat,  just  as  he  had  come  in  from  his 
evening  chores,  sat  on  the  veranda's  edge. 
Back  of  him,  in  a  low-bottomed,  old  cane 
rocker,  was  Andrew  M;ilden  in  a  rough  suit 
of  gray,  his  white  beard  reaching  far  down 
on  his  breast,  while  his  silver  locks  were 
blowing  in  the  breeze. 

For  once,  at  least,  he  was  opening  his 
heart  and  memory  to  the  lad  whom  he 
secretly  loved;  the  lad  who  often  wondered 
why  the  latch  string  of  Pine  Tree  Ranch 
was  out  for  him,  and  what  matter  would  it 
be  if  some  day,  when  he  and  Bess  went  off 
over  the  Chichilla  hills,  they  never  came 
back  again. 

To-night  the  old  man  was  talkative.  It 
was  his  birthday  and  he  was  in  retrospective 
mood.  "  Seventy  to-night,  Job  —  just  to 
think  of  it!  Twenty  years  more,  perhaps, 
and  then  — well,  a  coflin,  I  suppose,  and 
six  feet  of  ground  —  and  that's  all,"  he 
said. 

Job  wanted  to  say,  "  And  heaven,"  but  he 
did  not  dare.  And  then  a  thought  startled 
him:  Was  this  man,  who  had  gained  this 
world,  ready  for  any  other? 

For  an  hour  Andrew  Maiden  rambled  on. 
He  talked  of  the  Mexican  war;  told  of 
Vera  Cruz  and  the  battle  of  Monterey. 
"  Bravest  thing  you  ever  saw,  boy.  One  of 
those  Greasers  rode  square  up  to  our  line 
and  flung  a  taunt  in  our  faces,  and  rode 
away  in  disdain,  while  all  our  batteries 
opened  on  him." 


THE    TBANSFOBMAT1ON   OF    JOB. 


21 


He  came  to  the  close  of  the  war  stories, 
when  he  suddenly  stopped  and  grew  silent, 
puffed  at  an  old  pipe,  rose  and  walked  back 
and  forth.  He  was  thinking  of  that  day 
when  he  had  come  back  so  proudly  to  claim 
Mary  Moore,  and  had  found  the  blow  under 
which  he  had  staggered  for  nearly  forty 
years. 

"  You've  heard  of  Lincoln,  my  boy  —  old 
Abe  Lincoln?  Well,  I  knew  him  when  we 
were  boys,"  he  said,  as  he  sat  down  again. 
Then  he  told  story  after  story  of  the  long, 
lean,  lank  Kentucky  boy,  who  rode  a  raft 
down  the  Mississippi  and  helped  clear  the 
frontier  forests;  the  boy  who  was  one  day 
to  strike  a  blow  for  right  that  would  shake 
a  continent. 

Andrew  Maiden  laughed  till  Job  caught 
the  contagion  and  laughed,  too,  as  story  fol 
lowed  story.  Then,  after  another  silence,  he 
went  on  again: 

"  Dead!  Abe  Lincoln's  dead,  and  Zach  Tay 
lor's  dead  —  and  so  the  world  goes.  '  Van 
ity  of  vanities,  all  is  vanity,'  the  Bible  says. 
My  father  used  to  read  it  to  us  boys,  when 
I  was  your  age.  It's  true,  my  boy.  Have  as 
little  to  do  with  the  world  as  you  can,  ex 
cept  to  get  an  honest  living  out  of  it  —  a 
living  anyway.  Don't  love  anybody.  It 
don't  pay." 

The  old  man  faltered.  He  got  up  and 
paced  the  porch  again,  then,  coming  back, 
he  put  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder,  and, 
looking  into  his  face,  said: 

"  Job,  I  want  to  tell  you  something;  seems 
as  if  I  must  to-night." 

And  there  in  the  clear  moonlight,  inter 
rupted  only  by  Shot's  occasional  growl,  and 
the  distant  hoot  of  an  owl  or  bark  of  a 
coyote,  Andrew  Maiden  told  his  life  story 
to  the  boy  at  his  side,  the  boy  who  was  just 
passing  up  to  young  manhood.  He  told  of 
Mary  Moore;  of  the  weary  tramp  behind  an 
ox-team  across  the  prairies  and  Nevada 
desert;  of  that  snow-bound  winter  near 
Denver  Lake;  of  the  early  days  of  Gold 
City.  He  told  of  his  son  who  slept  beneath 
the  graveyard  pines;  of  his  own  lonely  life 


in  the  mountains;  then  he  came  to  that 
night  when  he  had  brought  this  boy  home. 
He  put  his  arm  around  the  lad  as  he  talked 
of  his  interest  in  him  and  how  he  had 
known  more  of  his  sins  and  downward  life 
than  Job  ever  dreamed. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  they  tell  me  you  have 
joined  the  Methodists  —  have  got  religion  or 
whatever  you  call  it.  Stick  to  it,  boy. 
Andy  Maiden's  too  old  to  ever  change  his 
views.  You  may  be  right  or  not,  but  any 
way  I'd  rather  see  you  go  to  Methodist 
meetin'  than  Pete's  saloon.  You're  going  to 
have  a  hard  time  of  it,  boy;  these  pesky 
Deans,  who  owe  all  they  are  to  me,  hate  you 
because  you  are  mine.  As  long  as  you  live 
with  Andy  Maiden,  you  will  have  to  suffer. 
Sometimes  I  think  it  ain't  worth  while  — 
what  do  you  care  for  an  old  man?" 

Again  the  voice  ceased,  and  Job  trembled, 
he  hardly  knew  why. 

"  Boy,"  up  spoke  the  old  man  again,  "  boy, 
it  isn't  worth  while!  I  will  give  you  a  bag 
of  nuggets,  and  you  can  take  Bess  and  go 
to-morrow  down  to  the  city  and  get  some 
learnin'  and  be  somethin',  and  be  out  of 
this  everlastin'  quarrelsome  world  of  Griz 
zly  county,  and  never  see  the  Deans  again. 
I  will  stand  it;  I  lived  alone  before  you 
came,  and  I  suppose.  I  can  do  it  again.  Only 
a  few  years  and  I  will  be  gone;  God  knows 
where  —  if  there  is  a  God." 

By  this  time  Job  was  choked  with  emo 
tion.  All  his  nature  was  aroxised.  He  fairly 
loved  this  strange  old  man.  Looking  up,  he 
begged  him  not  to  send  him  away;  stay 
he  would,  whatever  it  cost;  and  he  would  be 
as  true  a  son  to  him  as  a  strong  young  fel 
low  could. 

At  that,  the  old  man  rose,  went  into  the 
house,  and  came  back  with  something  that 
glittered  in  his  hand. 

"  Take  this,  Job,  put  it  in  your  hip- 
pocket,  and  the  first  time  any  one  of  the 
Deans,  big  or  little,  insults  you,  put  a  bullet 
through  him." 

Job  shrank  back  at  sight  of  the  revolver. 
"No!  Oh,  no!  I  can't  take  that!  Down  at 


22 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


the  camp-meeting  I  promised  God  to  love 
iny  enemies,  uncle.  I  can't  take  that." 

Then  Job  poured  out  his  heai't  to  Andrew 
Maiden.  He  told  of  his  conversion,  of  his 
trust  in  God,  and  that  he  was  no  longer 
afraid  of  the  Deans  or  of  anything. 

"Humph!  humph!"  said  the  old  man. 
"Well,  I  won't  argue  with  you,  boy;  but  as 
for  me,  I'd  rather  trust  my  hip  -  pocket 
when  I  have  to  deal  with  the  people  of 
Grizzly  county.  Do  as  you  please.  But  I'll 
keep  this  revolver,  and  death  to  the  man 
that  harms  a  hair  of  Job  Maiden,  the  only 
one  in  all  the  world  that  Andy  Maiden  loves." 

The  old  man's  voice  trembled,  and  he 
walked  into  the  house  and  shut  the  door; 
and  Job  knew  the  talk  was  over  for  that 
night. 

Whistling  to  Shot,  he  and  the  dog  stole 
upstairs  to  Job's  little  bare  room,  where  a 
few  wood-cuts  hung  on  the  wall,  and  a  long, 
narrow  bedstead,  a  chair,  and  a  box  that 
served  for  table,  were  the  only  furniture. 
He  took  the  little  Testament  from  under  his 
pillow  and  lovingly  kissed  it;  then  turning, 
he  read  for  his  good-night  lesson  from  his 
new-found  divine  Friend:  "Let  not  your 
heart  be  troubled,  neither  let  it  be  afraid. 
Lo,  I  am  with  you  alway,  even  unto  the  end 
of  the  world."  • 

Kneeling  a  moment  for  a  good-night 
prayer,  he  was  soon  in  bed  and  asleep, 
with  Shot  curled  up  on  the  covers  at  his 
feet,  while  through  the  open  window  the 
sound  of  a  guitar  came  where  one  of  the 
mill  hands  was  playing  the  tune  of 

"  Hush,  my  child,  lie  still  and  slumber, 
Holy  angels  guard  thy  bed." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
OFF  TO  THE  BIG  TREES. 

E  radical  change  that  had  come  into 
Job's  life  cut  him  off  from  the  com 
panions  of  other  days  and  left  him 
without  a  chum.    It  showed  the  manliness 


of  his  nature  that  as  he  started  out  in  the 
new  life,  seeing  quickly  that  he  must  part 
company  with  the  old  companions  who  had 
nearly  wrecked  his  life,  he  acted  on  the 
conviction  at  once. 

Perhaps  it  was  this,  perhaps  the  fact  that 
his  life  was  now  almost  altogether  on  the 
ranch,  that  made  Job  and  Bess  boon  com 
panions.  Many  a  mountain  trip  they  took 
together.  It  was  on  one  of  these  that  they 
went  to  the  Big  Trees.  That  bright  Septem 
ber  morning,  gayly  attired  with  new  som 
brero  and  red  bandanna  above  his  white 
outing-shirt,  astride  Bess,  Job  rode  slowly 
up  the  Chichilla  mountain  on  his  way  to 
visit  those  giant  trees.  Up  by  "  Doc " 
Trainer's  place,  over  the  smooth,  hard 
county  turnpike,  where  the  toll-road,  ever 
winding  round  aud  round  the  mountain-side, 
climbs  on  through  the  passes  of  the  live-oak 
belt  to  the  scraggly  pines  of  the  low  hills, 
on  to  the  endless  giant  forests  of  the  cloud- 
kissed  summits,  the  young  horseman  made 
his  way.  Now  and  then  the  road  descended 
to  a  little  ravine,  where  a  mountain  torrent 
had  torn  a  path  to  the  deep  canons  below; 
again  it  stretched  through  a  dim,  royal  arch 
way  of  green  where  the  great  trees  linked 
branches  as  over  a  king's  pathway;  and 
then  it  turned  a  bend  where  the  steep  sides 
sank  so  suddenly  that  even  the  trees  had 
no  foothold  and  the  bare  space  disclosed  a 
view  over  boundless  forests  of  dark  green, 
and  the  vast,  yawning  canons  and  distant 
rolling  hills,  to  where,  far-off,  like  some 
dream  of  the  past,  one  caught  glimpses  of 
the  endless  plains  covered  with  the  autumn 
haze  and  golden  in  the  morning  sunlight. 

The  grandeur  of  the  scenery,  the  rear  of 
the  brook  in  deep  canons  below,  whose  echo 
he  caught  from  afar,  the  exhilarating  ride, 
the  fresh  morning  breeze,  combined  with  the 
spiritual  experiences  of  his  nature,  which 
were  daily  deepening,  to  rouse  all  the  poetry 
in  Job's  soul,  of  which  he  had  more  than 
the  average  rough  country  lad  who  rode 
over  those  eternal  hills.  He  shouted,  he 
whistled  patriotic  airs  and  snatches  of  the 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


23 


popular  songs  he  heard  on  the  Gold  City 
streets;  then  the  old  songs  of  church  and 
the  heart-life  came  to  him,  and  he  sang 
them,  while  he  laid  his  head  over  on  Bess' 
neck  as  she  silently  climbed  ever  higher  and 
higher. 

Suddenly  Bess  gave  a  start  that  nearly 
threw  him,  as  the  delicate  form  of  a  deer 
rose  behind  a  fallen  tree. 
For  an  instant  the  beau 
tiful  animal  stood  look 
ing  with  great  soft  eyes 
in  a  bewildered  stare  at 
the  cause  of  his  sudden 
awakening,  then  plunged 
his  horns  into  the  bushes 
and  leaped  away  down 
the  mountain-side. 

Job  quickly  reached 
for  his  rifle,  only  to  dis 
cover  what  he  well 
knew  —  that  it  was  far 
away  at  home;  of  which 
he  was  glad  as  he 
thought  of  those  tender, 
pleading  eyes,  and  a 
great  love  for  the  harm 
less  creature,  the  for 
ests,  the  mountains  and 
all  the  world  welled  up 
in  his  soul.  "My!"  he 
said.  "  I'd  like  to  hug 
that  deer!  I'd  like  to  hug  everything, 
everybody!  I  used  to  hate  them;  I  would 
even  hug  Dan.  Bess,  dear  old  girl,  I'll  just 
love  you!"  and  he  flung  his  arms  around 
her  neck  and  hummed  away  as  they  passed 
up  the  hill. 

Soon  a  turn  in  the  road  brought  them 
to  the  summit,  where  for  a  moment  the 
trees  part  and  one  catches  glimpses  of  the 
long  winding  road  over  which  one  has 
come,  and  the  ever-rolling  forests  beyond, 
climbing  far  up  to  a  still  higher  ridge  that 
reaches  toward  the  Yosemite  and  the  high 
Sierras.  The  view  thrilled  Job.  The  psalm 
he  had  learned  for  last  Sunday  came  to 
him.  He  repeated  it  solemnly  with  cap  off. 


as  he  sat  still  on  Bess'  back:  "  I  will  lift 
up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from  whence 
cometh  my  help;  my  help  cometh  from  the 
Lord,  which  made  heaven  and  earth." 

Only  a  moment  he  .paused,  and  then 
started  on  a  gallop  down  the  hill.  The  ring 
of  Bess'  feet  on  the  hard  road  scared  the 
shy  gray  squirrels,  which  ran  chattering 


Father  of  the  Forest,"  Calaveras  Grove. 


up  the  tall  pines,  leaving  their  feast  of  nuts 
on  the  ground  beneath. 

A  few  minutes  later  and  all  the  solemnity 
of  his  soul  and  the  beauty  of  the  forests 
was  sadly  interrupted  as  he  rode  round  a 
curve  and  came  out  at  the  junction  of  the 
Signal  Point  and  the  Yosemite  toll-road. 

There  stood,  or  lay  rather,  half  on  its  side, 
a  rickety,  old  two-seated  structure  shaded 
by  white  canvas  supported  by  four  rough- 
hewn  posts.  It  leaned  far  to  the  side  on  one 
wheel  and  a  splintered  hub.  Down  the  hill 
a  broken  wheel  was  bounding;  while,  on 
the  dusty  road,  four  women  —  one  tall  and 
angular  in  a  yellow  duster,  one  little  and 
weazened,  arrayed  in  a  prim  gray  traveling 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


suit,  a  weeping  maiden  of  uncertain  age, 
and  a  portly  danie  of  ponderous  proportions, 
dressed  not  in  a  duster  but  a  very  dusty 
black  silk  —  were  pulling  themselves  up. 
Near  by  three  little  tots  were  howling  vig 
orously,  yet  making  no  impression  on  the 
poor,  lone,  lank  white  mare  which  stood 
stock  still  in  the  shafts,  with  a  contented  air 
that  showed  an  Immense  satisfaction  in 
the  privilege  of  one  good  stop. 

"  Mary  Jane,  this  is  awful!  Every  bone  in 
me  is  cracked  and  this  silk  dress  is  ruined 
—  yes,  is  ruined!  I  tell  yer  it  ain't  fit  for 
Mirandy's  little  gal's  doll!  And  my!  1 
know  my  heart  is  broken,  too;  I  can  hear  it 
rattle!  I'll  never  come  with  you  and  that 
horrid  runaway  horse  again!" 

The  poor  horse  flapped  her  ears  as  if  in 
appreciation  of  this  last  remark,  while  Mary 
Jane,  rising  up  like  a  yellow-draped  bean 
pole,  retorted  in  a  shrill  voice: 

"  Aunt  Eliza,  ain't  you  ashamed  to  be  de 
riding  me,  a  poor  lone  widder  with  three 
helpless  children!  I  hope  ye  are  cracked  — 
cracked  bad!  Horse,  humph!  I  guess  my 
horse  is  the  likeliest  in  Grizzly  county!  Yer 
know  yer  made  all  the  trouble;  any  decent 
wheel  would  give  way  when  it  had  a  square 
mile  of  bones  and  stuffin's  and  silk  above 
it!" 

"  Now,  sister  Mary  and  Aunt  Eliza," 
spoke  up,  in  a  thin,  metallic  voice,  that  of 
the  diminutive  dame  in  gray,  as  she  ad 
justed  her  bonnet  strings,  "  let  us  not  grow 
unduly  aggravated  at  the  disconcerting 
providence  which  has  overwhelmed  us  in 
the  journey  of  life.  There  are  compensating 
circumstances  which  should  alleviate  our 
sorrow.  Our  lives  are  spared,  and  the  im 
measurable  forests  are  undisturbed  by  the 
trifling  event  which  has  overtaken  us  poor, 
insignificant  creatures,  whose  —  " 

"  Insignificant!"  roared  Aunt  Eliza,  "  I 
guess  I  ain't  insignificant!  I  own  twenty 
town  lots  down  in  Almedy,  as  purty  as  yer 
ever  saw.  Insignificant!  I  —  the  mother  of 
ten  children  and  goodness  knows  how  many 
grandchildren!  And  as  for  them  trees  that 


yer  say  yer  can't  measure,  I'd  rather  see  the 
clothes-poles  in  Sally's  back  yard!" 

"  Yes,"  chimed  in  Mary  Jane,  "  and 
'  trifles '  yer  call  it,  for  a  poor  woman  that 
raises  spuds  and  washes  clothes  for  the 
men  at  the  mines  for  a  livin',  to  lose  her 
fine  coach  Pete  built  the  very  year  he  took 
sick  of  the  heart-failure  and  died,  and  left 
me  a  lone  widder  in  a  cold  and  friendless 
world!"  At  which  she  wiped  her  eyes  with 
the  yellow  duster. 

" '  Trifles ' !"  cried  Aunt  Eliza  again. 
" '  Trifles,'  for  us  poor  guileless  wimmen  to 
be  left  here  alone  in  the  wilderness,  twenty 
mile  from  a  livin'  creature,  and  nobody 
knows  what  wild  animals  and  awful  men 
may  come  along  any  minute!" 

For  a  moment  Job  halted  Bess  and 
watched  the  scene.  An  almost  uncon 
trollable  desire  to  laugh  possessed  him;  but, 
restraining  himself,  he  took  the  first  chance 
he  had  to  make  his  presence  known,  at 
which  Aunt  Eliza  groaned,  "Oh,  my!"  and 
Mary  Jane  instinctively  grasped  her  yelliug 
children,  and  the  prim  spinster  curtsied  and 
asked  if  he  used  tobacco.  At  Job's  surprised 
look  and  negative  reply,  she  said.  "  Very 
well.  I  never  employ  a  male  being  who 
permeates  his  environment  with  the  noxious 
weed.  As  you  do  not,  I  will  offer  you  proper 
remuneration  if  you  will  assist  us  in  this 
unforeseen  calamity." 

Assuring  her  that  he  would,  without  pay, 
do  all  he  could,  Job  went  to  work.  It  was 
well  on  in  the  day  ere,  by  his  repeated  er 
rands  down  to  the  big  hotel  barn  some  dis 
tance  below,  he  had  procured  enough  mater 
ial  to  get  the  rickety  old  structure  in  order 
and  help  Aunt  Eliza  back  up  its  high  side  to 
the  seat  she  had  left  so  unceremoniously  that 
morning.  The  last  he  heard,  as  the  white 
horse  slowly  pulled  out  of  sight  through  the 
forest,  was  Aunt  Eliza's,  "  Go  slow,  Mary 
Jane,  for  mercy's  sake!  Don't  let  her  run 
away!"  while  the  prim  spinster  shouted 
back  in  a  high  key,  "  Good-by,  young  man! 
You're  a  great  credit  to  your  sex;"  and 
Mary  Jane,  pounding  the  poor  mare  vigor- 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


25 


ously,  yelled,  "  G'lang!  Get  up!  We'll  never 
get  home!" 

It  was  nearer  sunset  than  it  should  have 
been  when  Job  reached  the  sign-board  far 
up  the  toll-road  that  read,  "  To  the  Big 
Trees."  Putting 
spurs  to  Bess,  he 
galloped  on  at  a 
rapid  pace  for  a  mile 
or  more,  when  he 
became  conscious 
that  the  sugar  pines 
and  cedars  were 
giving  place  to 
strange  trees  which 
had  loomed  up  be 
fore  him  so  gradu 
ally  that  he  was  not 
aware  the  far-famed 
Sequoias,  the  giants 
of  the  forest,  were 
all  about  him. 

A  dim,  strange 
light  filled  the  place. 
The  twilight  was 
coming  fast  in  that 
far,  lonely  spot 
shaded  by  the  close 
ranks  of  the  Titanic 
forms.  He  walked 
Bess  slowly  down 
the  shadowy  cor 
ridor  along  the  line 
of  those  straight 
giants,  whose  taper 
ing  spires  seemed 
lost  in  heaven's  blue. 

How  long  it  took  to  pass  a  tree!  Bess  and 
he  were  but  toys  beside  them,  yet  he  could 
scarcely  realize  their  vastness  till  he  slid  off 
her  back,  and,  throwing  the  rein  over  her 
neck,  started  around  one,  and  lost  Bess 
from  view  as  he  turned  the  corner  and 
walked  a  full  hundred  feet  before  he  had 
encircled  the  monster.  How  ponderous  the 
bark,  how  strangely  small  the  cones! 

Mounting  Bess,  he  rode  down  through  tlu; 


vast  aisle  of  these  monarchs  of  the  moun 
tains.  A  feeling  of  awe  came  over  him. 
The  world  of  Gold  City  and  strife  and  jeal 
ousy  and  struggle,  the  realm  of  Mary  Jane 
and  Aunt  Eliza,  the  world  of  petty  human 
ity,  seemed  far  away.  He  was  alone  with 
God  and  the  eter 
nities.  Silent  he 
stood,  with  bai-ed 
head,  and  looked 
along  the  mon 
ster  trunks  that 
stretched  far  up.  up, 
up,  towards  where 
the  soft  blue  of 
evening  twilight 
seemed  to  rest  on 
them  for  support. 
He  found  himself 
praying  —  he  could 
not  help  it.  It  was 
the  litany  of  his  soul 
rising  with  Nature's 
silent  prayer:  "  Our 
Father  which  art  in 
heaven,  hallowed  be 
thy  name.''  All 
through  he  said  it, 
to  the  reverent 
"  Amen,"  then,  put 
ting  on  his  hat,  rode 
on  toward  the 
farther  grove. 

On  he  went  past 
"Grizzly  Giant," 
standing  lone  and 
bare,  its  foliage 
gone,  its  old  age 

come  — "  Grizzly  Giant,"  which  was  old 
before  Christ  was  born;  on  by  vigorous  sap 
lings,  already  rivals  of  the  biggest  pines.  One 
time-worn  veteran  had  succumbed  to  some 
Titanic  stroke  of  Nature's  power  and  lay 
prostrate  on  the  ground.  Decay  and  many 
generations  of  little  denizens  of  the  forest 
had  hollowed  its  great  trunk  like  some  vast 
tunnel.  Job,  looking  in,  could  see  the  light 
in  the  distance. 


Grizzly  Giant,"  Mariposa  Grove. 


26 


1  HE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


It  was  big  enough  for  Bess  and  him  —  he 
was  sure  it  was;  he  would  try  it.  So,  whis 
pering  lovingly  to  the  horse,  he  rode  into  the 
gaping  monster,  rode  through  the  dark 
heart  of  the  old  giant,  clear  to  the  other 
end  and  on  into  daylight.  Enthused  by  his 
achievement,  Job  hurried  on  down  the  road 
and  around  the  great  curve,  to  see  looming 
up  before  him  "Wawona,"  far-famed 
Wawona,  the  portal  of  the  silent  cathedral 
through  whose  wide-syreading  base  and  un 
der  whose  towering  form  a  coach  and  six 
can  drive. 

The  sun  was  down,  the  shadows  were 
fast  gathering,  the  great  trees  were  retreat 
ing  one  by  one  in  the  gloom,  when  Job 
found  the  little  one-roomed  log  cabin  with 
open  door  where  he  had  planned  to  spend 
the  night.  Unsaddling  Bess  and  giving  her 
the  bag  of  grain  on  the  back  of  the  saddle, 
hurriedly  eating  a  lunch,  and  gathering 
some  sticks  for  a  fire  in  the  old  stone  fire 
place  in  case  he  needed  one,  throwing  a 
drink  into  his  mouth,  Indian  style,  from  the 
spring  just  back  of  the  cabin,  he  prepared 
for  the  night.  A  little  later,  tying  Bess  se 
curely  to  the  nearest  sapling,  he  closed  the 
cabin  door  behind  him,  rolled  down  the  old 
blankets  he  found  there,  and  lay  down  to 
sleep. 

How  dark  it  was!  How  still  the  world! 
A  feeling  of  intense  loneliness  stole  over 
Job,  and  then  a  sense  of  God's  nearness 
soothed  him  and  he  fell  asleep. 

It  must  have  been  after  midnight  when  he 
awoke  with  a  start,  a  feeling  of  something 
dreadful  filling  him.  He  listened.  All  was 
still  save  for  Bess'  occasional  pawing  near 
by.  Then  he  heard  a  sound  that  set  the 
blood  curdling  in  his  veins,  that  sent  his 
hair  up  straight,  and  made  his  heart  beat 
like  an  engine  —  from  far  off  in  the  moun 
tains  came  a  weird,  heart-breaking  cry  as  of 
a  lost  child. 

Job  knew  it  well.  It  was  the  call  of  a 
mountain  lion.  Again  it  came,  but  nearer 
on  the  other  side.  It  was  voice  answering 
voice.  Bess  snorted,  pawed,  and  seemed 


crazed.  What  should  he  do?  He  trembled, 
hesitated;  then,  breathing  a  prayer,  he  hur 
riedly  opened  the  cabin  door,  cut  Bess'  rope, 
led  her  in  through  the  low  portal,  barred 
the  door  behind,  and,  soothing  her  with  low 
whispers  of  tenderness,  tied  her  to  the 
further  wall  of  the  cabin,  and  crept  back 
into  bed.  Then  he  lay  and  waited  breath 
lessly  for  another  cry,  and  thought  all  was 
well,  till  in  a  distant  moan,  far  down  the 
road,  he  heard  it  again. 

For  a  moment  fear  almost  overpowered 
him ;  then  the  old  Psalm  whispered,  "  He 
that  keepeth  thee  will  not  slumber  nor 
sleep."  A  sweet  consciousness  of  the  abso 
lute  safety  of  God's  children  stole  over  the 
youth;  and  catching,  from  a  rift  in  the  roof, 
one  glimpse  of  the  stars  struggling  through 
the  tree  tops,  he  turned  over  and  fell  asleep 
as  peacefully  as  if  in  his  bed  at  home. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

CHRISTMAS    SUNDAY. 

IT  WAS  Christmas  Sunday  when  Job 
was  received  into  full  membership  in 
the  quaint  old  Gold  City  Methodist 
church.  Snow  was  on  the  ground,  and 
sleigh  bells  rang  through  the  air.  All  day 
long  the  streets  had  been  reverberating  with 
that  essential  of  a  California  Christmas,  the 
fire-cracker.  As  the  preacher  came  over 
from  Hartsville,  the  service  was  in  the 
evening. 

The  old  building  looked  really  fine  in  its 
new  dress  of  holly  berries,  mistletoe  and 
cedar.  Across  the  front  was  hung  in  big 
red  and  white  letters,  "  Unto  us  a  Child  is 
Born."  Over  the  organ  was  suspended  a 
large  gilt  star. 

The  place  was  crowded  that  night.  The 
double  fact  that  it  was  Christmas,  and  that 
the  camp-meeting  converts  would  be  bap 
tized,  brought  everybody  out. 

"  Joy  to  the  world,  the  Lord  is  come !" 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


27 


sang  the  choir  as  Job,  dressed  in  a  neat  new 
suit  of  gray  and  "  store  "  shirt,  entered  the 
church,  making  a  way  for  Andy  Maiden, 
who,  for  the  first  time  in  untold  years,  had 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  meeting-house. 
The  arrival,  a  few  minutes  before,  of  Slim 
Jim  the  gambler,  who  hung  around  the 
Monte  Carlo,  and  Col.  Dick,  its  proprietor, 
had  not  attracted  so  much  attention  as  the 
entrance  of  "  Jedge  Maiden,"  as  the  poli 
ticians  called  him  who  sought  his  political 
influence. 

The  preacher,  as  he  looked  down  on  that 
audience,  was  amazed.  He  had  seen  no 
such  scene  in  this  old  church  since,  with 
faint  heart,  he  had  first  stood  in  its  plain 
pulpit  as  pastor.  The  walls  were  lined 
with  all  the  representative  characters  of  the 
town,  good  and  bad,  rich  and  poor;  mer 
chants,  bar-keepers,  politicians  and  miners. 
In  the  center  the  old-time  church-goers  sat. 
Up  the  front,  filling  every  inch  of  space,  the 
starched  and  well  -  washed  youngsters 
wriggled  and  grinned  and  sang  Avithout 
fear,  as  hymn  after  hymn  was  announced. 

All  soon  caught  the  spirit  of  the  hour,  and 
a  general  feeling  of  good-nature  settled  down 
on  all.  In  fact,  the  place  fairly  trembled 
with  good-will,  as  a  class  of  boys  marched 
to  the  platform  and  sang: 

"  The  Christmas  bells  are  ringing  over  land  and 

sea, 
The    winter    winds    are    bringing    their    merry 

notes  to  me," 

and  the  wee  tots  involuntarily  turned  to 
the  rear  as  they  ended  with  almost  a  yell: 

"  Then  shout,  boys,  shout ! 

Shout  with  all  your  might ; 
For  Merry  Christmas  's  at  the  door, 
He's  coming  here  to-night !" 

On  the  programme  went  —  recitations, 
songs,  choruses,  following  close  after  one 
another.  A  fairy-like  girl,  with  all  child 
hood's  innocence,  told  anew  the  old  story  of 
Bethlehem  and  the  Christ  Child.  The  tears 
stole  down  some  rough  cheeks  as  the  mem 


ories  of  long-gone  childhood's  Christmas 
days  came  back  to  them. 

The  wee  tots  had  sung  their  last  hymn, 
when  the  preacher  began  his  sermon  on 
the  angel's  song  that  echoes  still  each 
Christmas  over  all  the  world:  "  Glory  to  God 
in  the  highest,  peace  on  earth,  good-will 
toward  men."  For  twenty  minutes  he 
talked  of  glory,  peace,  good-will —  those 
things  so  sadly  lacking  in  many  lives  before 
him;  talked  till  each  face  grew  solemn,  and 
Slim  Jim  looked  as  if  he  was  far  away  in 
some  distant  memory-world.  Andy  Maiden 
seemed  to  hear  Peter  Cartright,  as  he  had 
heard  him  in  his  father's  cabin  when  a  boy, 
and  remembered  for  the  first  time  in  years 
the  night  he  had  promised  the  eccentric  old 
preacher  he  would  be  a  Christian  —  a  prom 
ise  that  had  been  drowned  by  the  drum-beat 
of  the  old  war  days  and  the  disappointment 
of  a  lifetime. 

As  the  preacher  finished,  every  man  and 
woman  there  made  a  silent  resolution  to  be 
better-natured  and  pay  their  debts  and  make 
life  a  little  brighter  for  somebody.  But, 
alas!  resolutions  are  easily  broken. 

"  The  candidates  for  baptism  will  please 
come  forward,"  said  the  parson. 

Up  they  rose,  old  and  young;  Tim  Donnis, 
the  cobbler;  aged  Grandpa  Lewis;  a  score 
of  both  sexes.  Around  the  altar  they  stood, 
a  long  semicircle;  and.  as  it  so  happened, 
Jane  at  one  end,  and  Job,  with  serious, 
manly  air,  at  the  other. 

Question  after  question  of  the  ritual  was 
asked.  Clear  and  strong  came  the  answers. 
"  Wilt  thou  renounce  the  devil  and  all  his 
works?"  Jane  nodded  yes  —  how  little  she 
knew  of  the  devil!  Job  answered  loudly. 
"I  will"  — how  much  he  did  know!  "The 
vain  pomp  and  glory  of  the  world?"  con 
tinued  the  minister;  and  old  Mrs.  Smith, 
who  lived  alone  in  the  hollow  back  of  the 
church  and  had  had  such  a  struggle  of  soul 
to  give  up  the  flowers  on  her  hat  that  she 
fancied  were  too  worldly,  responded,  "  Yes," 
with  a  groan.  "  Wilt  thou  be  baptized  in 
this  faith?"  asked  the  preacher  at  last.  A 


28 


THE    TBANSFOEMATION   OF   JOB. 


unanimous  chorus  answered,  "I  will,"  and, 
taking  the  bowl  in  his  hand,  he  passed  down 
the  line  of  the  now  kneeling  forms  and  ad 
ministered  the  sacred  ordinance.  Job  was 
last.  Leaning  over,  the  parson  asked  his 
name,  then  there  rang  out  through  the 
church,  as  the  eager  throng  leaned  forward 
to  hear  and  Andrew  Maiden  poked  the  floor 
with  his  cane,  "  Job  Teale  Maiden,  I  baptize 
thee  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the 
Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Amen." 

The  service  was  over.  The  crowds  were 
pouring  out  the  door,  the  organist  was  play 
ing  "  Marching  Through  Georgia "  on  the 
wheezy  organ  as  the  liveliest  thing  she 
knew,  the  people  were  wishing  each  other 
"  Merry  Christmas,"  as  Job,  hurrying  out 
of  the  church,  felt  a  touch  on  his  shoulder, 
and,  looking  up,  saw  Slim  Jim  the  gambler. 

"  Job,  come  out  here.  I  have  something  to 
tell  you,"  said  he. 

Pushing  through  the  throng,  they  crept 
around  the  church  in  the  dark,  when  Jim, 
putting  his  hand  on  the  youth's  shoulder, 
said: 

"  Job,  I  remember  the  night  you  came  to 
Gold  City,  what  a  poor,  homeless  lad'  you 
were!  I  remember  the  day  you  won  the 
horse-race  and  I  said,  '  The  devil's  got  the 
kid  now  sure.'  And  now  I  am  so  glad,  Job. 
that  you've  gone  and  done  the  square  thing. 
I  helped  bury  your  father,  and  I  tell  you 
he  was  a  fine  fellow  —  a  gentleman,  if  he 
had  only  let  the  drink  and  cards  alone.  Oh. 
Job,  never  touch  them!  You  think  it's 
strange,  perhaps,  but  I  was  good  once,  far 
off  in  old  Pennsylvania.  I  was  a  mother's 
boy,  and  went  to  church,  and  —  Job,  would 
you  believe  it?  — I  was  going  to  be  a 
preacher!  —  I,  poor  Slim  Jim  that  nobody 
cares  for,  now.  But  I  wanted  to  get  rich, 
and  I  came  to  Gold  City.  1  learned  to  play 
cards,  and  —  well,  here  I  am.  No  help  for 
me  —  Slim  Jim's  lost  this  world  and  his  soul, 
too.  But  you're  on  the  right  track,  and,  if 
when  you  die  and  go  up  there  where  those 
things  shine,"  —  and  he  pointed  through  the 
pines  to  the  starlit  sky  —  "  you  meet  a  little, 


sweet  old  lady  with  white  hair  and  a  gray 
dress  knitting  a  pair  of  socks,  tell  her  that 
her  Jamie  never  forgot  her  and  would  give 
the  best  hand  he  ever  had  to  feel  her  kiss 
once  more  and  hear  her  say  good-night. 
Tell  her  — listen,  boy!  — tell  her  ir  was  the 
cards  that  ruined  Jamie,  but  he's  her  Jamie 
still."  And  with  tears  on  his  face  and  in 
his  voice,  the  tall,  pale  wreck  of  manhood 
hurried  off  in  the  darkness,  leaving  Job 
alone  in  the  gloom. 

It  was  late  that  night  when  Job  said  his 
prayer  by  his  bed  at  home,  but  he  made  it 
long  enough  to  put  in  one  plea  for  Slim 
Jim. 


CHAPTER  X. 
THE    COVE    MINE. 

IT  IS  six  miles  from  Pine  Tree  Ranch 
to  the  Cove  Mine.  You  go  over  Look 
out  Point,  from  where  El  Capitan  and 
the  outline  of  the  Yosemite  can  be  easily 
seen  on  a  clear  day,  down  along  the  winding 
upper  ridge  of  the  Gulch,  up  again  over 
the  divide  near  Deer  Spring  and  down 
along  the  zigzag  trail  on  the  steep  side  of 
Big  Bear  Mountain,  then  down  to  the  very 
waters  of  the  south  fork  of  the  Merced;  just 
six  miles  to  where,  in  the  depth  of  the 
canon,  lies  Wright's  Cove  Mine.  In  all  the 
far-famed  Sierras  there  can  be  no  more  pic 
turesque  spot.  If  one  will  take  the  trouble 
to  climb  the  almost  perpendicular  ridge  that 
rises  two  thousand  feet  behind  the  old  tum 
bledown  buildings,  long,  low  cook-houses 
and  superintendent's  vine-covered  cottage, 
along  that  narrow,  half-destroyed  trail  that 
follows  the  rusty  tracks  and  cogs  and  cable 
of  an  old  railroad,  up  to  the  first  and  then 
on  further  to  the  second  tunnel,  where  a  few 
deserted  ore-cars  stand  waiting  the  trains 
that  never  come,  on  still  higher  to  the  nar 
row  ridge  that  .separates  the  south  fork 
from  the  north  fork  of  the  Merced  River,  he 
is  rewarded  with  a  view  worth  a  long  trip 
to  see. 


TEE    TRANSFORMATION   OF   JOB. 


29 


Let  him  stand  there  at  sunset  in  the  early 
spring  and  he  has  seen  a  view  worthy  of  the 
land  of  the  Jung  Frau  and  Mt.  Blanc.  All 
around,  the  white-topped  peaks  of  the  high 
Sierras;  far  away,  the  snow  banner  waving 
over  the  Yosemite;  to  the  left  of  him,  far 
below,  like  a  river  of  gold,  sending  up  hither 
a  faint  murmur  as  it  rushes  over  giant  boul 
ders  and  innumerable  cataracts,  the  North 
Fork,  hurrying  from  that  ice-bound  gorge 
which  is  the  wonder  of  the  Sierras;  to  the 
right,  on  the  other  side,  dancing  down  from 
the  far-off  Big  Trees,  threading  the  tangled 
jungles  of  the  Gulch,  coming  out  through 
the  dark  green  forest  like  a  rim  of  molten 
silver,  roaring  down  past  the  quaint  little 
mining  settlement,  which  looks  half  hid  in 
partly-melted  snow  banks  like  some  Swiss 
village,  comes  the  south  fork  of  the  river, 
disappearing  behind  the  mountain  on  which 
one  stands. 

The  rushing  stream,  whose  music  is  like 
some  far-off  echo;  the  strange  deserted  vil 
lage;  the  narrow  line  of  dark  rails  up  the 
mountain  -  side  through  the  snow;  the 
gloomy,  cavernous  tunnels;  the  setting  sun 
in  the  west  gilding  all  with  its  transfiguring 
touch  —  these  give  a  scene  worthy  the  brush 
of  a  master-artist,  who  has  never  yet  found 
his  way  over  the  Pine  Mountain  trail  to  the 
South  Fork  and  Wright's  Cove  Mine. 

It  was  just  such  a  day  in  spring  as  this,  as 
Job  came  whistling  down  the  trail,  gun  in 
hand,  looking  for  deer  -  tracks,  that  he 
thought  he  heard  the  report  of  a  gun  up  in 
the  second  tunnel.  He  had  often  been  there 
before;  had  climbed  the  trail  and  the  cog 
railroad,  played  around  and  over  the  de 
serted  buildings,  and  gone  swimming  off  the 
iron  bridge  where  the  torrent  was  deep 
est.  Once  he  and  Dolph  Swartz,  a  neighbor 
boy,  had  slept  all  night  in  the  tool-house 
shed,  waiting  for  game,  and  had  seen  only 
what  DcJph  was  sure  was  a  ghost  —  so  sure 
that  he  hurried  Job  home  at  daybreak  with 
a  vow  that  he  would  never  stay  at  Wright's 
Cove  another  night. 

Job  knew  the  place  well,  yet  on  this  spring 


day  he  stopped  and  looked  mystified.  There  it 
was  again!  Who  could  be  in  the  second  tun 
nel  with  a  gun?  Was  it  the  spirit  of  some 
poor  forty-niner  come  back  again?  He 
doubled  his  speed,  slid  down  through  the 
mud  and  slush,  grasped  a  sapling  and 
leaped  down  the  short  cut,  ran  up  the  bank 
and  rocky  sides  of  the  roaring  torrent, 
walked  carefully  over  the  slippery  iron  rails 
of  the  old  rusty  bridge,  and  made  his  way 
up  the  steep  Tunnel  Trail. 

Soon  he  was  close  to  the  tunnel,  so  far  up 
that  the  river's  noise  was  lost  behind  him. 
He  stopped  and  listened.  Not  a  sound. 
Then  clean  and  strong  the  ring  of  a  gun,  and 
a  dull  echo  in  the  dim  cavern! 

All  kinds  of  thoughts  rushed  through 
Job's  head.  He  was  not  a  superstitious  boy, 
yet  this  was  enough  to  make  anybody  feel 
queer  —  all  alone  in  that  deserted  wilder 
ness,  with  the  echo  of  a  gun  coming  out  of 
the  lonely  mine,  unworked  for  years  and 
into  which  no  human  footstep  had  pene 
trated  since  the  day  that  old  Wright  shot 
himself  in  the  tunnel  when  he  found  that 
the  mine  which  had  paid  big  at  first  and 
into  which  he  had  put  all  his  income,  was 
a  failure.  Job  had  heard  the  boys  tell 
that  Indian  Bill,  the  trapper,  said  he  had 
seen  the  old  fellow's  skeleton  marching  up 
and  down  with  gun  in  hand,  two  hundred 
feet  down  the  tunnel,  defending  it  against 
all  intruders.  Perhaps  that  was  the  ghost 
now!  Would  he  dare  to  go?  His  flesh 
crept  at  the  thought.  He  wished  Shot  was 
with  him,  or  at  least  some  living  thing. 
Again  he  heard  the  report.  His  courage  rose. 
He  would  face  the  thing,  whatever  it  was. 

Creeping  up  slowly  and  noiselessly,  he 
reached  the  entrance  to  the  tunnel  and 
looked  in.  All  was  as  dark  as  the  grave. 
A  cold  draft  rushed  out  over  him.  He  could 
hear  the  drip,  drip,  of  water  from  the  roof. 
At  first  he  thought  he  saw  something  mov 
ing  in  the  distance,  then  he  was  not  sure. 
He  decided  he  would  turn  back;  then  curi 
osity  was  loo  much  for  him;  he  began  to 
whistle  and  walked  boldly  into  the  darkness, 


30 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


followed  the  rotten  ties,  when,  lo!  he  saw 
a  flash  of  light,  heard  a  thundering  report, 
and,  involuntarily  giving  a  yell,  started  to 
run.  when  a  familiar  voice  shouted: 

"  Job,  Job,  come  here!" 

He  turned,  and  there  loomed  up  before 
him,  to  his  utter  amazement,  the  form  of 
Andrew  Maiden. 

The  old  man  was  evidently  disconcerted 
and  angry  at  being  found,  while  the  boy 
was  utterly  dumfounded. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Job;  I'll  go  home  with 
you,"  said  Maiden,  as  he  took  out  the  queer 
est  charge  Job  had  ever  seen  in  a  gun  —  a 
load  of  gold  dust,  which  he  carefully 
rammed  down  the  barrel,  then,  bidding  Job 
look  out,  fired  into  the  rock. 

"  Why.  what  are  you  doing  that  for?" 
stammered  the  boy. 

"  Oh,  salting  the  mine,  just  so  it  will 
keep,"  laughed  Andrew  Maiden  —  a  strange, 
hoarse  laugh.  "  But  mind.  Job.  nobody  needs 
to  know  I  did  it.  The  mine  will  keep  better 
if  they  don't." 

As  they  passed  out.  Job  noticed  that  the 
wall  of  the  mine  glittered  in  a  way  he  had 
never  seen  before.  What  did  it  all  mean? 
He  dared  ask  no  more  questions  of  Andrew 
Maiden.  Almost  in  silence  they  climbed 
down  the  old  trail,  edged  across  the  bridge, 
and  strode  with  a  steady  pace  up  the  long 
six  miles  over  the  Point  to  their  home. 

"What's  'salting  a  mine,'  Tony?"  asked 
Job  of  the  black  hostler  one  day  a  week 
after. 

"  Doan'  know.  Marse  Job,  unless  it's  doc 
toring  the  critter  so  you  can  make  somebody 
believe  it's  worth  a  million,  when  it  ain't 
worth  a  rabbit's  hind  foot.  Tony's  up  to  bet 
ter  bizness  than  salting  mines." 

"Who  owns  the  Cove  Mine,  Tony?" 

"  Why,  Marse  Maiden,  I  'spec,"  said  the 
surprised  negro. 

That  evening  Job  looked  at  his  guardian 
with  a  queer  feeling  as  they  sat  down  to 
supper,  and  that  night  he  heard  gun-shots  in 
his  dreams,  and  awoke  with  a  shiver  and 
waited  for  something  to  happen.  He  was 


conscious  of  impending  trouble.    Something 
was  wrong. 

It  had  been  a  hard  winter  in  Grizzly 
county,  and  throughout  the  whole  country, 
for  that  matter;  a  hard  winter,  following  a 
fatal  summer  which  closed  with  crops  a  fail 
ure  on  the  plains,  the  stunted  grain  fields 
uncut,  and  the  whole  country  paralyzed. 
The  cities  were  full  of  men  out  of  work. 
The  demand  for  lumber  had  fallen  off,  and 
the  Pine  Mountain  Mill  was  idle  over  half 
the  time.  The  pessimism  that  filled  the  air 
had  reached  Andrew  Maiden,  and  he  sat  by 
the  fire  all  winter  nursing  it.  If  he  could 
sell  the  Cove  Mine  —  but  what  was  there  to 
sell?  And  he  gave  it  up  as  a  futile  project. 
Then  there  came  news  of  a  rich  strike  of 
gold  in  Shasta  county,  and  a  little  later  in 
the  far  south  the  deserts  of  the  Mojave 
were  found  to  glitter.  A.  perfect  epidemic 
of  mining  excitement  followed.  The  most 
unthought-of  places,  the  old  deserted  mines. 
were  found  to  be  bonanzas.  Andy  caught 
the  fever.  He  tramped  all  over  the  Pine 
Tree  Ranch  prospecting,  but  gave  up  in 
despair.  Then  he  thought  once  more  of  the 
Cove  Mine.  He  made  many  a  secret  trip 
there.  Then  he  ordered  a  box  of  gold  dust 
from  the  Yellow  Jacket  and  stole  down  to 
the  Cove  again  and  again,  till  discovered  by 
Job. 

In  all  those  years  of  living  for  himself  and 
to  himself.  Andrew  Maiden  had  tried  to  be 
square  with  the  world.  Business  was  busi 
ness  with  him.  He  made  no  concessions  to 
any  man;  pity  and  altruism  were  not  in  his 
vocabulary.  Unconsciously  to  himself,  he 
had  grown  to  be  a  very  hard  man,  and  the 
heart  within  him  found  it  difficult  to  make 
itself  felt  through  the  calloused  surface  of 
his  life.  But  with  it  all  Andrew  Maiden 
had  been  honest.  His  word  was  as  good  as 
his  bond  in  all  Grizzly  county.  No  man 
questioned  his  statements.  Everyone  got  a 
hundred  cents  on  the  dollar  when  Andrew 
Maiden  paid  his  debts. 

But  no  man  knew  that  in  those  days  of  the 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


31 


hard  spring  the  gray-haired  pioneer  was 
passing  through  one  of  the  greatest  tempta 
tions  of  his  life.  Men  were  buying  up  mines 
all  about  him,  just  at  a  glance;  mines  fully 
as  worthless  as  the  Cove  Mine.  Anyhow, 
who  knew  the  Cove  Mine  was  worthless?  It 
had  had  a  marvelous  record  in  early  days. 
A  little  capital  spent  might  bring  immense 
reward.  The  old  man  sat.  again  and  again, 
alone  on  the  front  porch  and  turned  it  over 
in  his  mind.  Then  he  would  creep  off 
down  to  the  mine,  and  feel  his  way  in  the 
dark  tunnel,  looking  for  a  new  lead.  He 
looked  at  the  places  he  had  salted,  until  he 
almost  brought  himself  to  believe  them 
genuine.  Nobody  would  know  the  differ 
ence,  he  argued.  Job  did  not  know  what  he 
was  doing  when  he  found  him.  He  would 
take  the  risk;  he  might  lose  the  ranch  itself 
if  he  did  not.  And,  coming  home  with  the 
first  stain  of  dishonesty  on  his  soul,  Andrew 
Maiden  astonished  Job  by  ordering  him  to 
have  Jack  and  Dave  hitched  up  at  three  in 
the  morning;  he  was  going  to  drive  to  the 
plains  and  the  railroad  station,  then  take  a 
train  to  the  city,  and  would  be  back  in  a 
few  days. 

Ten  days  later,  Jack  and  Dave  and  the 
carriage,  all  coated  with  slush  and  mud. 
drove  up  to  the  door,  and  Andrew  Maiden, 
with  a  strangely  affable  smile  on  his  face, 
clambered  stiffly  out  and  introduced  Job  to 
Mr.  Henry  Devonshire,  an  Englishman  trav 
eling  for  his  health  and  profit.  With  a  gi'uff 
greeting  the  stranger  said: 

"  We  'ad  a  dirty  trip  hup.  The  mud's 
no  respecter  h'of  an  H'english  gentle 
man  nor  h'an  American  millionaire,  don'cher 
know?"  and  the  pompous  Mr.  Devonshire 
handed  his  hand-grip  to  Job,  while  he  poked 
out  his  shoes  for  the  gray-haired  lackey  to 
wipe,  with  an  — 

"  'Ere,  you,  clean  these  feet,  blooniin' 
quick!" 

Job  and  Tony  obeyed,  but  a  significant 
look  passed  between  them. 

The  next  few  days  things-  went  lively  at 
the  Pine  Tree  Ranch.  Some  of  the  mill  men 


were  ordered  off  to  scour  the  mountains  for 
deer,  a  new  Chinese  cook  came  up  from 
Gold  City,  and  the  old  man  and  the  "  H'eng 
lish  gentleman,"  as  Tony  called  him  with  a 
contemptuous  chuckle,  mounted  horses  ami 
went  riding  over  the  ranch  and  down  to  the 
mine.  It  took  all  the  grace  Job  had  to  see 
the  arrogant  boor,  with  his  two  hundred  and 
fifty  avoirdupois,  get  Tony  to  help  him 
mount  Bess,  and,  poking  her  in  the  ribs,  call 
out,  "  What  a  blooinin'  'orse!  Cawn't  h'it 
go!"  and  ride  off  toward  Lookout  Point. 

It  was  astonishing,  the  politeness  Andrew 
Maiden  assumed;  how  he  overlooked  all  the 
gruffness  of  his  guest  and  treated  him  like  a 
prince.  Job  fairly  stared  in  wonder.  It 
capped  the  climax  when  one  night  —  just  as, 
tucked  up  snug  in  his  bed,  Job  was  dreaming 
of  his  last  walk  home  from  school  with 
Jane  —  to  feel  a  rude  shake  and  to  see 
Andrew  Maiden  with  excited  face  standing 
over  him,  saying: 

"Jump,  boy!  Dress  quick  and  saddle  Bess 
and  ride  with  all  your  might  to  Gold  City 
and  catch  Joe  before  the  stage  leaves.  Take 
this  telegram,  and  tell  him  to  send  it  as  soon 
as  he  gets  to  the  plains  and  Wheatland 
Depot!  Here,  up  with  you!" 

It  was  not  over  fifteen  minutes  after  that 
Job  was  galloping  away  on  Bess'  back  in 
the  cold,  night  air,  over  the  muddy  roads, 
stiffened  somewhat  in  the  frosty  spring 
night,  and  lit  only  by  the  dim  starlight.  It 
was  a  wild  ride,  a  ride  that  sent  a  chill 
to  his  very  marrow;  and  if  it  had  not  been 
for  his  ever-present  trust  in  God.  it  would 
have  struck  terror  to  his  heart.  It  seemed 
as  if  it  grew  darker  and  darker.  The  clouds 
were  creeping  across  the  stars,  the  great 
trees  hung  like  a  drapery  of  gloom  over 
the  roadway.  Faster  and  faster  he  rode. 
Now  he  soothed  Bess  as  she  shied  at  some 
suspicious  rock  that  glistened  with  un- 
melted  snow,  or  some  crackle  in  the  bushes 
that  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night  air;  then 
he  urged  her  on  till  down  the  steep  Frost 
Creek  road  she  fairly  flew. 

It  was  at  the  dim  hour  of  dawn,  and  out 


32 


THE    TEANS  FORMATION    OF    JOB. 


of  the  gloom  the  world  was  creeping  into 
view,  when  Job,  with  the  white  foam  on 
Bess,  and  both  heated  and  freezing  himself, 
rode  up  to  the  door  of  the  old  brick  Palace 
Hotel,  where  Joe,  just  mounting  the  box  of 
the  familiar  ancient  coach  in  which  Job  had 
once  years  ago  traveled  as  a  passenger,  was 
about  to  snap  his  whip  over  the  backs  of 
four  doubtful-looking  horses  which  stood 
pawing  the  ground  as  if  anxious  to  be  stir 
ring  in  such  frosty  air. 

A  hurried  conversation,  a  white  paper 
passed  into  Joe's  hands,  and  the  long  whip 
snapped,  four  steeds  made  a  desperate 
charge  forward,  an  old  woman  in  the  coach, 
wrapped  in  three  big  shawls,  bounded  into 
air,  and  Job  saw  the  stage  vanish  up  the 
hill,  with  the  horses  settling  down  to  the 
conventional  snail's  pace  they  had  main 
tained  these  long  years. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

BATTLES    WITH    CONSCIENCE. 

~1TOE  evidently  sent  the  telegram,  for  his 
I  stage  next  day  brought  up  the  long- 
looked-for  load  of  "  bigbugs  "  that  set 
the  whole  town  of  Gold  City  wild  to  know 
why  they  were  there.  A  perfect  mob  of  street 
urchins,  loafers,  shop-men  and  bar-keepers 
who  could  spare  a  bit  of  time,  lined  up  in 
front  of  the  Palace  Hotel  and  watched  the 
plaid-coated,  gray-capped  visitors  in  short 
knickerbockers  and  golf  stockings  puff  their 
pipes  around  the  bar  and  call  for  "  Porter 
and  h'ale,  'alf  and  'alf." 

Interest  reached  its  climax  when,  after 
supper,  three  buckboards,  loaded  with  the 
guests  heavy  in  more  ways  than  one. 
started  down  toward  Mormon  Bar  and  the 
Pine  Mountain  road. 

It  was  quite  late  when  the  loud  bai'king 
of  dogs  announced  their  arrival  at  Pine  Tree 
Ranch,  and  it  was  still  later  when  Job  crept 
up  to  the  hay-loft  over  the  stable  to  find  a 
substitute  for  his  cosy  bed,  which  he  had 
surrendered  to  another  "  H'english  gentle 


man,"  with  an  emphasis  on  the  last  word. 
The  boy  was  in  a  quandary  to  know  what  it 
all  meant.  He  felt  an  inward  sense  of  dis 
gust.  He  disliked  such  people  as  these  new 
friends  of  the  old  man's.  Then  he  remem 
bered  that  the  good  Book  says,  "  Thou  shalt 
love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself,"  and  he  was 
painfully  conscious  that  they  were  close 
neighbors  now,  so  he  breathed  a  silent 
prayer  that  the  Lord  would  make  him 
love  the  unlovable,  and  after  a  time  fell 
asleep. 

It  was  the  second  day  of  the  feast.  Veni 
son  and  quail,  if  not  milk  and  honey,  had 
made  the  table  groan  in  the  big  center  room, 
now  changed  into  a  dining-room.  The  par 
lor  had  been  turned  into  a  smoking-room, 
and  Job  had  seen,  with  indignation  that 
stirred  his  deepest  soul,  empty  beer  bottles 
on  his  bedroom  floor.  A  whole  cavalcade  of 
horsemen  had  gone  down  in  the  morning  to 
the  Cove  and  come  galloping  back  at  night. 
Job  had  been  to  the  milk-house  and  was 
coming  back  past  the  side  door  in  the  dusk 
of  the  evening;  it  was  ajar  and  the  fumes 
of  tobacco  smoke  rolled  out.  He  was 
tempted  to  peer  in.  Around  the  cleared 
dining-table  the  crowd  of  red-faced  guests 
were  seated,  with  Andy  at  the  head  play 
ing  the  host  in  an  awkward  sort  of  way.  On 
the  table  were  spread  a  big  map  and  paper 
and  ink. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Maiden,  this  'ere  nugget  came 
from  the  mine,  you  say.  Bloomin'  purty, 
hain't  h'it,  fellows?"  said  a  voice. 

"  Yes,  gentlemen,  I  found  that  myself. 
My  son  Job  and  I  were  prospecting,  and  we 
discovered  it  —  the  richest  nugget  ever  found 
in  Grizzly  county.  Of  course  we  kept  it  a 
secret;  didn't  want  a  rush  up  here,"  replied 
Maiden. 

"  What  a  lie!"  said  Job  to  himself.  "  That's 
the  very  nugget  Mike  Hannerry  found  at  the 
Yellow  Jacket!  Where  on  earth  did  uncle 
get  it?" 

"  Come,  Devonshire,  let's  buy  'er  h'up  and 
get  h'out  of  this  bloomin'  country.  I  want 
to  get  back  to  the  club.  The  boat  for  Aus- 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF   JOB. 


33 


tralia  sails  Saturday,"  spoke  up  another 
voice. 

"  But  now  I  want  to  ask  the  mon  a  thing." 
said  a  little  shrewd-faced  Scotchman.  "  Is 
he  sure  the  thing  down  the  hollow  isn't 
salted?  I  got  one  salted  mine  in  the  col 
onies,  and  —  " 

"  Salted!"  said  Andy,  with  an  unnoticed 
flush  on  his  face.  "  Salted!  Do  you  suppose, 
gentlemen,  I  would  bring  you  here  to  sell  you 
a  salted  mine?  You  can  ask  anybody  back 
in  the  city  if  my  credit  isn't  first-class." 

"  Oh,  mon,"  said  a  tall  Highlander,  "  oh, 
mon,  the  feller's  crazy.  Salted  — humph! 
We  saw  the  gold  with  our  own  eyes.  I  say 
take  the  mine.  I'll  take  a  thousand  shares 
at  a  pound.  How  much  is  the  deal,  did  the 
mon  say?" 

"  H'an  'undred  thousand  pounds.  Cheap, 
I  think,"  answered  Devonshire. 

"  H'it's  a  go.  We'll  'ave  the  stuff  h'at  the 
h'inn  down  h'in  —  what's  the  name  of  that 
town?"  said  the  tall  one. 

"  Gold  City,  sir,  Gold  City!"  spoke  up  the 
excited  host. 

"  Well,  Gold  City  —  that's  the  spot.  We'll 
pay  the  cash  there.  My  banker'll  come  h'in 
there  to-night  h'in  the  stage." 

And  as  Job  crept  away,  he  heard  them 
planning,  between  drinks,  the  future  of  the 
"  Anglo-American  Gold  Mining  Syndicate," 
with  main  office  in  London  and  place  of 
operation  in  Grizzly  county,  State  of  Cali 
fornia,  the  United  States  of  America. 

Job  did  not  sleep  that  night.  All  through 
the  dark  hours  he  tossed  on  his  straw  bed 
over  the  stable.  Andrew  Maiden  was  going 
to  sell  the  Cove  Mine  for  five  hundred  thou 
sand  dollars  —  and  it  was  not  worth  one 
cent!  It  was  an  outrageous  fraud.  The  boy 
felt  like  going  and  telling  those  capitalists. 
He  felt  a  sense  of  personal  guilt.  Yet  he  al 
most  hated  those  men.  What  difference  if 
they  were  cheated?  — they  would  never  miss 
it;  they  deserved  it.  How  much  Uncle  Andy 
needed  the  money!  And  it  would  be  his  own 
some  day. 

That  thought  touched  Job's  conscience  to 


the  center.  He  was  a  partner  in  the  crime! 
He  half  rose  in  bed,  resolving  that  he  would 
face  the  crowd  and  tell  all  —  how  he  had 
stood  by  and  seen  the  old  man  salt  the  mine. 
Then  he  hesitated.  What  was  it  to  him? 
If  he  told,  it  would  ruin  Andy.  What  busi 
ness  had  he  with  it,  anyhow?  But  all  night 
long  the  wind  whistled  in  through  the 
cracks,  "  Thou  shalt  not  steal,"  and  Job 
tossed  in  agony  of  soul,  wishing  he  had 
never  climbed  down  the  Pine  Mountain  trail 
to  the  Cove  on  that  spring  day  when 
Andrew  Maiden  salted  the  mine. 

The  sun  was  well  up  the  next  morning 
when  the  procession  of  buckboards  was 
ready  to  start  for  Gold  City.  Andrew  Mai 
den  and  the  shrewd  fellow  had  gone  an 
hour  before,  the  rest  were  off,  and  only  the 
boorish  Devonshire  was  left  to  ride  down 
with  Tony.  Job  stood,  with  heart  palpitat 
ing  and  conscience  goading  him,  down  by 
the  big  pasture  gate  to  let  them  through.  All 
his  peace  of  mind  was  gone.  A  few  mo 
ments  and  the  crime  would  be  carried  out 
to  its  end,  and  he  would  be  equally  guilty 
with  the  avaricious  old  man  who  was  the 
nearest  one  he  had  in  all  the  world. 

Tony  and  the  last  man,  the  obnoxious 
Devonshire,  were  coming.  How  Job  hated 
to  tell  him,  of  all  men!  The  hot  flashes 
came  and  went  on  his  cheek;  he  turned 
away;  he  bit  his  lip;  he  would  let  it  go  — 
lose  his  religion  and  go  to  the  bad  with  Andy 
Maiden.  Then  the  old  camp-meeting  days 
came  back  to  him.  He  heard  again  Slim 
Jim's  words  in  the  dark  behind  the  church 
that  Christmas  night;  he  remembered  his 
vows  to  God  and  the  church. 

The  horse  and  the  buckboard  had  passed 
through  the  gate;  the  Englishman  had 
thrown  him  a  dollar;  he  was  trembling  from 
head  to  foot.  He  offered  a  quick  prayer, 
then  hurried  after  them,  halted  Tony,  and, 
looking  up  into  the  red  face  of  his  com 
panion,  said: 

"  Sir,  the  mine  is  salted;  I  saw  the  old  man 
do  It  —  it's  salted  sure!" 

The  load  was  gone,  the  consciousness  of 


34 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF   JOB. 


truthfulness   filled   his   soul.  '  That   day    he 
played  with  Shot  and  sang  about  his  work. 

The  dusky  twilight  had  come,  when  Job 
heard  the  stern  voice  of  Andrew  Maiden 
outside,  as,  with  an  oath,  he  threw  the  reins 
to  Hans.  The  boy  rose  to  meet  him  as  he 
heard  his  step  on  the  porch.  The  door 
opened,  and  Job  saw  a  white  face  and 
flashing  eyes,  the  very  incarnation  of  wrath. 

"You  pious  fraud!  What  made  you  tell 
those  men  the  mine  was  salted!"  hissed  the 
old  man. 

"  Uncle,  I  am  sorry,  but  I  couldn't  help  it. 
I  knew  it  —  1  had  to  tell  the  truth,"  stam 
mered  Job. 

"Couldn't  help  it,  you  sneak!  You  owe  all 
you  are  to  me.  I  guess  I  am  more  to  you 
than  all  your  religion!" 

"  Uncle,  I  am  sorry  to  hurt  you,  but  I 
could  do  no  less  and  please  God.  And  God 
is  first  in  my  life." 

"  First,  is  he?  Then  go  to  him,  and  let  him 
feed  you  and  clothe  you,  you  ungrateful 
wretch!"  And  with  the  words  the  angry  man 
struck  Job  such  a  blow  that  he  went  reeling 
over,  a  dead-weight,  on  the  floor. 

It  was  midnight  when  Tony,  passing  the 
door,  heard  the  old  man  moan.  Peering  in 
at  the  window,  he  saw  him  on  his  knees 
beside  Job,  who,  with  white  face  and  closed 
eyes,  lay  on  a  lounge  near  the  door.  Tony 
stole  away  to  whisper  to  Hans: 

"  Guess  the  old  man's  made  way  with  the 
kid!  Let's  lay  low!" 

What  a  night  that  was  for  Andrew  Mai 
den!  Two  minutes  after  he  had  struck  the 
blow,  all  the  wrath  which  had  gathered 
strength  on  that  long  mountain  ride  was 
gone.  The  blow  struck  open  the  door  of  his 
heart;  he  saw  that  the  boy  was  right  and  he 
was  wrong.  That  blanched  face,  those 
closed  eyes  —  how  they  pierced  him  through 
and  through!  He  loved  that  boy  more  than 
all  the  mines  and  gold  and  ranches  in  the 
world.  The  depth  of  his  iniquity  came  over 
him.  He  hated  himself,  he  hated  the  Cove 
Mine;  but  that  stalwart  lad  lying  there  — 


how  he  loved  him!  All  the  hidden  love  of 
thirty  years  went  out  to  him.  "Job!  Job!" 
he  cried.  "  Look  at  me!  Tell  me  you  for 
give  me!" 

He  dashed  water  in  the  boy's  face.  He  felt 
of  his  heart  —  he  could  hardly  feel  it  beat. 
Was  he  dead?  Dead!  — the  only  one  he 
cared  for?  Dead!  — the  poor  motherless  boy 
he  had  brought  home  one  moonlight  night 
long  ago,  and  promised  that  he  would  be 
both  father  and  mother  to  him?  Dead!  — 
aye,  dead  by  his  hand!  And  for  what? 
For  telling  the  truth;  for  being  honest  and 
manly;  for  saving  him  from  holding  in  his 
grasp  the  ill-gotten  gain  that  always  curses 
a  man. 

The  hot  tears  came,  the  first  in  years. 
Andrew  Maiden  knelt  by  the  bedside  and 
groaned.  And  then  he  thought  of  Job's  God 
and  of  the  Christ  he  talked  about:  thought 
of  the  little  Testament  he  cherished.  He 
would  call  on  Him,  he  would  beg  Him  to 
spare  Job.  He  knelt  near  the  lad;  he 
started  to  say,  "Oh,  God,  spare  my  boy! 
spare  my  boy!"  when  a  sense  of  his  wicked 
ness,  his  hard  heart,  his  selfish  life,  his  sin, 
came  over  him;  and  instead  he  cried  from 
the  depths  of  his  soul,  "  God  have  mercy  on 
me  a  sinner!" 

The  daylight  was  struggling  through  the 
shutters  when  Job  turned  and  opened  his 
eyes,  to  see  an  anxious  face  look  into  his 
own  and  to  hear  a  familiar  voice  out  of 
which  had  gone  all  anger,  say: 

"  Oh,  Job,  my  boy,  I  knew  He'd  hear  me, 
I  prayed  so  long!  Job,  God  has  forgiven 
me!  Won't  you?  Oh,  tell  me  you  will!  I 
am  a  different  man!  I  read  it  in  the  Book 
while  you  lay  here  so  still:  'Though  your 
sins  be  as  scarlet,  they  shall  be  as  white 
as  snow.'  And  Job,  it's  true!" 

The  fever  stayed  with  Job  many  a  day 
after  that,  and  it  was  June  before  the  nat 
ural  color  came  back  into  his  white  cheeks. 
But  the  old  ranch  seemed  like  a  new  place 
to  him;  and  when  one  morning  Mr.  Maiden 
read  at  family  devotions,  "  All  things  work 
together  for  good  to  them  that  love  God," 


I  HE    TRANSFORMATION    OF   JOB. 


35 


he  broke  down  in  the  prayer  he  tried  to 
make,  and  rushed  out  of  doors  to  hide  the 
tears  of  joy  that  choked  him,  while  he  heard 
Tony  singing  as  he  went  about  his  toil: 

"  Oh,  dar's  glory,  yes,  dar  is  glory, 

Oh,  dar  is  glory  in  my  soul ! 
Since  I  touched  de  hem  of  His  garment, 
Oh,  dar  is  glory  in  my  soul." 


CHAPTER     XII 

SQUIRE    PERKINS. 

OF  ALL  the  queer  families  in  the  moun 
tains,  not  one,  surely,  equalled  that 
of  Squire  Perkins,  a  real  down-east 
Yankee,  whose  house  was  not  more  than  a 
mile  west  of  Maiden's  Mill,  on  the  Frost 
Creek  road.  A  little  weazened  old  man. 
who,  while  he  had  always  been  staunch  to 
his  political  creed,  and  had  been  Republican 
supervisor  of  the  town  ever  since  people 
could  remember,  yet  had  drifted  religiously 
till  he  was  now  a  typical  Spiritualist.  The 
neighbor  boys  who  used  to  go  past  his  house 
evenings  and  see  him  with  the  "  Truth 
Seeker  "  in  his  hands,  wandering  among  the 
trees  and  gazing  blankly  into  space,  often 
took  him  for  a  genuine  ghost. 

His  wife  was  quite  unlike  him.  She  was 
born  in  a  house-boat  on  the  Pearl  River 
near  Canton,  and,  with  hair  plaited  down 
her  forehead  and  cheeks,  slanting  eyes  and 
wooden  shoes  and  a  silk  robe,  had  landed 
at  San  Francisco  when  it  was  still  a  hetero 
geneous  trading-post,  and  had  come  up  with 
the  miners  to  prattle  "  pigeon  English,"  and 
cook,  as  it  turned  out,  for  Squire  Perkins. 
When  other  women  came  —  Americans  from 
the  States  —  the  old  man  married  her.  Long 
since  she  had  adopted  American  ways  and 
had  joined  the  Methodist  church,  and  not 
one  of  the  neighbors,  who  always  sent  for 
Squire  Perkins'  wife  in  time  of  trouble, 
thought  less  of  her  because  she  was  a  Chi 
nese  woman. 

The  long,  white  cottage,  with  its  vine-cov 


ered  walls,  its  "  hen-and-chicken  "  bordered 
walks,  and  its  old  gnarled  apple  tree  hug 
ging  the  left  side  next  to  the  stone  chimney, 
became  a  still  queerer  place  when  Widow 
Smith,  a  tall,  straight,  firm,  black-eyed, 
dark-skinned  Indian  woman,  the  descendant 
of  a  long  line  of  natives  of  these  hills,  but 
withal  a  refined,  womanly  old  lady,  came 
to  board  with  Squire  Perkins  and  his  wife. 
Widow  Smith  was  a  Presbyterian  of  the 
straitest  sort.  The  Squire's  was  surely  a 
home  of  many  races  and  many  creeds. 

It  was  at  this  house  that  one  Tuesday 
evening  the  Methodist  class  met,  and  Andy 
Maiden  came  and  confessed  Christ,  and  all 
Grizzly  county  was  startled  thereby.  It 
was  here  that  Job  often  rode  up  on  Bess 
beside  the  kitchen  window  where  Aunty  Per 
kins  was  making  rice  cakes,  and  heard  her 
say:  "Job,  heap  good,  allee  samee  angel 
cake.  Have  some.  Melican  boy  have  no 
mother.  Old  Chinawoman,  she  take  care  of 
him." 

And  she  kept  her  word.  She  won  the  boy's 
heart,  till  he  found  himself  more  than  once 
going  with  his  troubles  down  to  Aunty  Per 
kins',  who  always  ended  her  motherly  ad 
vice  with,  "  Be  heap  good,  Job,  heap  good. 
The  Lord  lub  the  motherless  boy.  '  He  will 
never  fail  nor  forslake  thee.'  " 

It  was  here  that  Jane  also  stole  with  her 
heart  burdens  to  the  strange,  great-hearted 
woman  who  mothered  the  whole  county. 
It  was  here  she  was  going  one  hot  July 
afternoon,  as,  with  blackberry  pail  on  her 
arm,  she  walked  slowly  down  Sugar  Pine 
Hill,  thinking  of  the  day  when  she  had 
first  met  Job  on  that  very  road.  Her  black 
hair  was  smoothly  braided  down  her  back, 
she  wore  a  light  muslin  dress  tied  with  a 
red  sash,  low  shoes  took  the  place  of  the  tan 
and  dust  of  other  days,  a  neat  starched  sun- 
bonnet  enfolded  her  face  now  showing  traces 
of  womanhood  near  at  hand.  As  she  turned 
the  bend  of  the  road,  Job  stood  there  lean 
ing  on  the  fence  with  a  far-away  look.  It 
was  he  who  was  startled  this  time,  as  he 
dropped  his  elbows  and  hastened  to  lift  his 


36 


THE    IEANSFOEMAT10N   OF   JOB. 


faded  sombrero.  It  was  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  for  him  to  walk  slowly 
down  the  lane  with  her  toward  the  Mill 
Road.  The  July  sun  was  hot,  so  they  kept 
on  the  shady  side  of  the  way. 

Job  thought  enough  of  the  girl  to  make 
him  reserved.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  that 
she  was  first  in  all  his  prayers,  and  that  up 
in  his  room  he  had  the  plans  drawn  for  a 
cabin  over  on  the  corner  of  the  ranch  where 
she  should  stand  in  the  doorway  and  look 
for  his  coming.  Thrice  he  started  to  open 
his  heart,  then  he  shrank  back  abashed; 
talked  of  the  cows  and  how  the  calves  grew; 
told  her  Bess  was  lame  —  couldn't  ride  her 
this  week;  said  that  was  a  pretty  fine  ser 
mon  the  parson  preached  last  Sunday  — 
and  turned  homeward;  while  Jane  looked 
after  him  with  wondering  eyes  and  felt  a 
great  ache  in  her  heart  as  she  thought: 
"  It's  no  use;  he  don't  care  for  me!" 
She  had  barely  passed  the  mill  and  the 
whiz  of  its  'machinery  lulled  into  a  murmur 
that  mingled  with  the  brook  along  the  well- 
shaded  road,  when  she  heaid  the  clatter  of 
horse's  hoofs,  and,  mounted  on  an  old  white 
nag,  Dan  rode  up  to  her  side  with: 
"  Hello,  Jane!  Get  on  and  ride!" 
Jane  blushed.  A  year  ago  she  would  have 
done  it;  why  not  now,  even  if  she  was  big? 
No  one  woiild  see  her.  Dan  was  awfully 
good  to  ask  her;  Job  wouldn't  do  it.  So  up 
she  climbed  on  the  saddle  behind  him,  and 
Dan  walked  the  horse  as  they  chatted  away 
in  the  most  easy  fashion. 

She  was  longing  to  talk  of  religion  to  Dan; 
she  felt  he  needed  it.  But  one  thing  was 
sure  — Dan  was  sober  nowadays;  he  had 
actually  improved.  He  was  trying  now  to 
talk  of  love;  for  he  was  really  beginning  to 
feel  that,  not  only  because  he  had  made  a 
bet  to  do  so  and  defeat  Job.  but  because  he 
did  care,  he  should  some  day  claim  Jane 
Reed  as  his  own.  Neither  succeeded  in 
getting  the  conversation  just  where  they 
wanted  it  before  Squire  Perkins'  apple 
orchard  came  into  view,  and  Dan  was 
obliged  to  halt  his  old  nag  by  the  horse 


block   built  out  from  the  white  fence  and 
assist  Jane  to  alight. 

She  actually  stood  there  till  Aunty  Per 
kins  called:  "  Gal  lost  one  ting.  Come  lite 
in.  All  gone."  At  which  Jane  blushed  and 
went  in,  though  all  Mrs.  Perkins'  words 
could  not  drive  out  of  her  mind  the  Job  she 
loved  and  the  Dan  whom  she  wished  she 
could  love.  How  comely  she  looked  as  she 
stood  in  the  doorway  at  twilight!  Any  one 
might  have  been  proud  of  her. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
SCHOOL. 

f  I  ^  HE  next  fall  was  Job's  last  term  at 
school.  He  felt  awkward  and  out  of 
place,  for  most  of  the  boys  of  the 
country  round  left  at  sixteen,  just  as  they 
were  tangled  up  in  fractions  and  syntax. 
Now  he  was  close  to  the  twenties,  and  the 
only  big  boy  left  in  the  Frost  Creek  school, 
whose  white  walls  peeped  out  through  a 
grove  of  live-oaks  where  the  creek  babbled 
merrily  over  the  rocks. 

Yet  with  a  pluck  that  had  always  charac 
terized  him,  Job  stuck  to  his  books  and  sat 
among  the  crowd  of  little  youngsters  who 
automatically  recited  the  multiplication 
table  when  the  teacher  was  looking,  and 
threw  paper  wads  when  she  was  not.  Jane 
was  there,  copying  minutely  in  dress  and 
manner  after  Miss  Bright,  the  new  teacher, 
whom  she  greatly  admired.  Job  found  it  very 
pleasant  to  still  walk  home  with  Jane  and 
talk  of  algebra,  class  meeting,  and  the  trip 
they  must  soon  take  to  the  Yosemite  —  sub 
jects  which  were  mutually  interesting.  Yet 
somehow  the  \vild,  natural  freedom  of 
former  days  was  missing.  Both  were  pain 
fully  conscious  of  their  awkward  age  and 
the  fact  that  they  were  no  longer  children. 

Charlie  Lewis  sat  next  to  Job,  a  wee,  frail 
little  fellow,  whose  large  eyes  looked  up  end 
lessly  at  his  tall  next  neighbor,  whom  he 
secretly  worshiped,  partly  because  Job 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF    JOB. 


37 


shielded  him  from  the  rough  bullies,  and 
partly  because  he  had  taken  a  fancy  to  the 
little  lad  aud  took  him  along  when  he  went 
up  to  the  mountains  or  down  to  Perkins 
Hollow  swimming.  A  crowd  of  dark-eyed 
Mexicans  and  one  small  Chinese  boy  filled 
the  right  corner,  while  over  on  the  left  were 
the  Dixon  children  and  little  Helen  Day. 
Helen  was  a  new  arrival,  a  prim  Miss  of  six. 
who  used  to  live  on  the  plains,  where  her 
father  was  section-hand  on  the  railroad; 
which  accounted,  perhaps,  for  the  fact  that 
the  time  when  Father  Lane,  the  old 
preacher  from  Merritt's  Camp,  called  and 
they  sang,  "  Blest  be  the  tie  that  binds," 
and  the  teacher  asked  Helen  what  ties  were 
meant,  she  promptly  answered,  "  Railroad 
ties,  ma'am." 

As  pretty  as  a  picture,  always  dressed  in 
fine  white,  with  a  flower  at  her  throat  as  a 
brooch,  aud  no  end  of  wild  ones  on  her 
desk,  Miss  Bright  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
school  room  through  the  day,  laughing  mer 
rily  now  over  the  mistakes  of  some  awkward 
boy,  now  singing  kindergarten  songs  with  a 
class  of  wee  tots,  and  then,  after  the  smaller 
ones  were  dismissed,  holding  Jane  and  Job 
spellbound  as  they  stood  by  her  desk  and 
heard  her  talk  of  her  college  days  and 
'Frisco,  lovely  'Frisco,  and  the  glories  of 
entomology,  and  the  delights  of  philosophy 
—  names  which  Job  knew  must  mean  some 
thing  grand.  He  began  to  wish  that  Jane 
looked  like  her  and  talked  like  her  and  had 
lived  in  'Frisco.  He  began  to  wonder  who  it 
was  that  Miss  Bright  wrote  letters  to  every 
day,  and  who  wrote  those  Dan  Dean  used 
to  leave  at  the  school-house  for  her  post 
marked  "  New  York."  His  fears  were  re 
lieved,  though,  when  he  heard  her  laugh 
merrily  one  day  when  inquisitive  Maggie 
Dean  asked:  "What  man  writes  to  you  all 
the  time,  Miss  Bright?"  and  reply,  "  My 
brother,  of  course,  Maggie.  But  little  girls 
shouldn't  ask  too  many  questions." 

They  used  to  have  morning  prayers  when 
the  other  teacher  was  here,  but  Miss  Bright 
said  that  prayer  was  only  the  expression  of 


our  longings  and  we  did  not  need  to  pray 
aloud,  and  she  thought  God  knew  enough 
to  look  after  us  without  bothering  him 
about  it  every  day.  Job  was  shocked  at 
first,  then  he  thought  perhaps  Miss  Bright 
was  right,  she  was  so  nice  and  knew  so 
much.  She  boarded  at  Jeremiah  Robinson's, 
who  lived  on  the  Frost  Creek  road.  More 
than  once  Job  found  himself  going  there  at 
her  invitation,  ostensibly  to  study  Latin  and 
literature,  which  were  not  in  the  regular 
curriculum.  He  did  not  care  much  for  the 
studies  —  he  found  it  hard  to  get  far  be 
yond  "  Amo,  amas,  arnat,"  and  as  for  Chau 
cer  and  his  glittering  knights  and  fair 
ladies,  he  detested  them;  but  those  moments 
after  the  lessons,  when  Miss  Bright  chat 
tered  away  about  the  beauties  of  evolution 
and  the  loveliness  of  protoplasm  and  the 
immanence  of  Deity  in  all  nature  — Job 
fairly  doted  on  them. 

Sometimes  she  accepted  his  invitation  for 
an  evening  ramble.  He  felt  proud  to  have 
people  see  him  with  her.  He  would  have 
liked  to  ask  her  to  the  class-meeting  at 
Squire  Perkins',  but  he  was  afraid  to;  she 
would  think  it  beneath  her  to  go  among 
those  country  folks.  And  then,  what  would 
she  think  of  Widow  Green  if  she  got  one  of 
her  crying-spells?  or  lame  Tim,  who  was  a 
little  daft,  but  who  loved  to  come  to  class- 
meeting  and  said  always,  "Tim's  no  good; 
he  ain't  much;  but  Jesus  loves  him.  Sing, 
brethren,  '  I  am  so  glad  that  Jesus  loves 
me.'  "  So  Job  never  invited  her.  In  fact,  he 
did  not  like  to  tell  her  he  went;  and,  for  fear 
she  would  know  it,  he  stayed  away  two 
weeks  when  she  asked  him  to  walk  with  her 
those  moonlight  nights. 

Miss  Bright  was  so  good,  he  thought;  yet 
there  was  much  he  could  not  understand. 
She  never  went  to  church.  She  said  it 
was  too  far,  and  besides  she  thought  it  more 
helpful  to  worship  amid  the  grandeur  of 
nature,  reading  the  lofty  thoughts  of  the 
poets.  And  after  that  Job  thought  the 
preacher  at  Gold  City  was  a  little  old 
fogyish. 


38 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOS. 


Dan  Dean  was  not  slow  to  observe  the  un 
conscious  drifting  of  Job  away  from  the 
church  and  toward  the  schoolrna'am.  Jane 
did  not  notice  it  till  Dan  hinted  to  her  that 
the  only  reason  Job  had  cared  for  the 
church  was  because  she  went  there,  and  now 
that  Miss  Bright  had  come  he  had  dropped 
her  and  the  church  both.  Which  was  so  near 
the  truth  that  Jane  began  to  feel  strange 
when  Job  was  near,  and  to  do  what  she  had 
never  dreamed  of  doing  before  with  a  single 
human  being  —  she  began  to  doubt  the  occa 
sional  kind  words  he  now  gave  her,  and  all 
he  had  ever  uttered.  With  the  impulse  of  a 
wounded  heart,  she  turned  to  Dan.  Yet 
try  the  best  she  could,  she  could  never  feel 
the  same  toward  him.  She  pitied  Dan;  a 
philanthropic  feeling  animated  her  as  she 
thought  of  him.  She  would  do  anything  to 
make  a  man  of  him  —  marry  him,  even,  if 
necessary;  but  to  think  of  surrendering  her 
life  and  very  being  to  him.  following  him 
down  the  tortuous  path  of  life,  "  For  better 
or  for  worse,  for  richer  or  poorer,"  to  have 
him  as  her  idoal  of  manhood  —  that  thought 
repelled  her.  Often  she  found  herself  stand 
ing  behind  a  tree  on  the  way  home  from 
school,  waiting  to  catch  one  glimpse  of  Job 
as  he  sauntered  by  with  Miss  Bright's  cloak 
on  his  arm  and  its  owner  chattering  at  his 
side.  She  was  angry  to  think  she  did  it;  she 
ran  home  by  the  short  cut  through  the 
woods,  slammed  the  cabin  door  behind  her, 
threw  herself  on  the  bed  and  had  a  good  cry, 
arose  and  wiped  the  tears  away,  and  vowed 
she  would  marry  Dan  if  he  asked  her. 

Job  unconsciously  walked  into  the  meshes 
that  fate  seemed  to  have  thrown  around 
him.  More  and  more  he  transferred  the 
admiration  of  his  heart  to  the  stately,  proud, 
talented  girl 'of  the  world,  who  found  him  a 
convenient  escort  and  companion  in  the 
mountain  country  where  friends  that  suited 
her  were  scarce.  Job  was  blind;  he  adored 
her.  Later  aiid  later,  daily,  was  his  return 
from  school.  The  little  Testament  grew 
dusty  on  the  box-table  in  his  bedroom,  his 
morning  prayers  sounded  strangely  alike, 


and  even  Andy  Maiden  wondered  at  the 
coldness  of  the  lad's  devotion  at  family 
worship.  He  went  to  church,  but  seldom  to 
class-meeting.  He  devoured  a  book  Miss 
Bright  had  loaned  him,  on  "The  World's 
Saviors  —  Buddha,  Mohammed,  Christ,"  — 
in  which  he  found  his  Master  placed  on  a 
level  with  other  great  souls.  He  asked  her 
the  next  day  if  she  did  not  think  Christ  was 
divine,  and  marveled  at  her  learned  reply 
that  "  All  nature  is  divine.  Matter  and  men 
are  but  the  manifestations  of  divinity,  and 
the  Galilean  Teacher  was  undoubtedly  a 
wonderful  character  of  his  day." 

One  night,  as  he  left  her,  she  loaned  him  a 
French  novel  full  of  skepticism  and  scorn  of 
virtue  and  morality.  He  was  tempted  to 
throw  it  in  the  fire,  but  it  was  hers.  He 
read  it  and  rather  liked  it  He  began  to 
think  he  had  been  too  narrow;  he  wished 
he  could  get  out  and  see  the  world,  the  great 
world  of  thinking  people  where  Miss  Bright 
lived.  The  poison  Avas  in  his  soul.  How 
commonplace  the  sermon  sounded  the  next 
Sunday  on  "  I  am  determined  to  know  noth 
ing  among  you  save  Jesus  Christ  and  him 
crucified"!  How  narrow  Paul  must  have 
been!  It  was  the  Sunday  night  before 
Christmas.  The  fall  term  had  ended,  and 
the  schoolma'am  was  going  home;  no  more 
school  till  spring.  A  year  before  Job  had 
stood  in  the  great  congregation  and  taken 
the  solemn  vow  to  be  loyal  forever  to 
Christ  and  his  church;  to-night  the  Christ 
mas  service  went  on  without  him.  Tony, 
who  was  there  and  who  half  suspected 
something  was  wrong,  yet  did  not  like  to 
have  anyone  else  think  so,  said  to  those  who 
asked  him: 

"  Yes,  Marse  Job's  sick;  dassen't  come 
out." 

But  Job  was  not  sick,  as  Tony  thought. 
He  was  in  the  Robinson  parlor,  sitting  with 
Miss  Bright  before  the  flickering  log  fire, 
which  dimly  lit  the  long,  low  room  with  its 
rag  carpet  and  old-fashioned  furniture. 
They  were  talking  over  their  friendship,  and 
she  was  flattering  him  upon  his  superiority 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF    JOB. 


39 


to  those  country  greenhorns  who  lived  up 
here;  she  always  knew  he  had  city  blood  in 
him.  Job  was  acting  sillier  than  anybody 
would  have  dreamed  Job  Maiden  could  act, 
in  his  evident  pride  at  her  flattery  and  the 
strange  feelings  which  drew  him  to  her. 
She  laughed  at  his  attempts  to  compliment 
her,  and,  on  his  departure,  followed  him  to 
the  door  and  said  how  heart-broken  she  was 
to  leave  the  mountains  and  him. 

Job  went  home  in  raptures,  and  lay  awake 
all  night  planning  how  to  get  away  from  the 
mountains  and  the  rude  people  who  lived 
there,  and  down  into  the  city  somewhere  — 
anywhere  where  Fanny  Bright  lived. 

All  that  week  he  wandered  about  as  if 
lost,  cross  and  good  for  nothing  at  work. 
His  city  idol  had  gone  home. 

It  was  two  days  after  Christmas  that  Job 
tore  the  wrapper  off  a  'Frisco  paper  and  sat 
down  to  read,  when,  glancing  over  the  col 
umns,  his  eyes  met  the  following: 

"  Unity  Church  made  a  brilliant  scene  on 
Christmas  night  at  the  wedding  of  Miss  Fran 
ces  Evelyn  Bright,  a  charming  young  society 
lady,  to  Walter  Graham  Davis,  the  well-known 
actor.  Miss  Bright  had  just  returned  from 
Grizzly  county,  where  she  has  been  for  her 
health,  so  her  friends  made  the  reception  that 
followed  one  in  a  double  sense." 

It  was  a  haggard,  red-eyed  young  fellow 
who  crept  down  the  stairs  after  dusk,  stole 
out  to  the  stable,  and  saddled  Bess.  All 
night  he  rode  up  and  down  the  mountain 
roads.  He  hated  the  ground  Miss  Briglit 
had  walked  over,  hated  the  house  she  had 
lived  in,  hated  the  school,  vowed  he'd  never 
enter  it  again,  hated  himself.  She  was 
gone,  Jane  was  gone  —  long  since  he  had  let 
Dan  have  her  to  himself  —  his  church  was 
gone,  all  his  peace  of  soul,  all  his  religion, 
was  gone.  He  would  ride  up  on  Lookout 
Point  and  plunge  over  into  the  Gulch  to 
death  and  eternity,  he  and  Bess  together. 
Who  cared  ?  They  were  all  alike  —  all  were 
heartless.  Poor  boy!  he  was  learning  a  les 
son  that  many  a  one  has  learned  —  a  bitter 
lesson  —  and  all  the  forces  of  evil  seemed 


to  fight  for  his  soul  that  dark  night  as  he 
climbed  Lookout  Point  on  Bess. 

He  had  reached  the  top  when  the  moon 
came  up  over  El  Capitan  and  drove  away 
the  gloom,  lighting  up  the  white  -  topped 
peaks  and  the  dark,  black  ravine.  Somehow, 
he  thought  of  his  mother.  There  had  been 
one  good  woman  in  the  world,  after  all.  He 
hesitated,  then  turned  slowly  down  the  hill 
and  toward  home. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

YANKEE    SAM. 

IT  WAS  a  wild  March  night  when  Job 
Maiden  found  his  way  back  to  God.  No 
one  could  ever  forget  that  night.  The 
storm  tore  over  the  mountains  till  the  great 
forests  fairly  creaked  and  groaned  beneath 
the  mad  sweep  of  the  wind. 

At  dusk  that  afternoon  a  rap  startled  Job 
as  he  sat  by  the  fire  watching  the  logs 
crackle  and  thinking  of  by-gone  days,  while 
the  rain  poured  without.  He  opened  the 
door,  and  saw  Mike  Hennessy,  dripping  wet 
and  with  cap  in  hand. 

"  Shure,  Mr.  Job,  the  top  of  the  evenin' 
to  yez.  But  Mr.  Schwarzwalder,  the  hotel 
keeper  at  the  town,  wants  ye,  he  says,  to 
bring  the  Holy  Book;"  at  which  Mike  rever 
ently  crossed  himself.  "  A  man  is  dyin'  and 
wants  yez;"  and  the  good-natured  Irishman 
was  gone  in  an  instant,  leaving  Job  in 
blank  amazement. 

Ride  that  awful  night  to  Gold  City  —  take 
the  Bible  — man  dying.  What  could  it  mean? 
But  the  lad's  better  nature  conquered,  and, 
the  Bible  snug  in  his  pocket,  he  and  Bess 
were  soon  daring  the  storm,  bound  for  Gold 
City. 

It  was  a  wild  night.  Wet  to  the  skin,  Job 
rode  up  to  the  Palace  Hotel,  late,  very  late, 
where  he  found  a  group  of  solemn-faced 
men  waiting  for  him. 

"  Change  your  clothes,  Job,"  said  the 
hotel-keeper;  "  here's  a  dry  suit.  Hurry 


40 


THE    TBANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


now!  Yankee  Sam  is  dying  upstairs,  and  he 
won't  have  no  one  but  you;  says  you're  his 
preacher,  and  he  wants  to  hear  you  read 
out  of  some  book." 

Job  grew  white.  Yankee  Sam  dying,  and 
he  to  hear  his  last  confession,  he  the  priest 
to  shrive  him,  he  the  preacher  to  console 
him!  The  boy  lifted  up  his  first  true 
prayer  for  months,  and  followed  the  man 


boy,  I  took  you  into  my  heart  —  for  Yankee 
Sam's    got   a    heart;    and    I    felt    so   proud 
of  you   that   night   when   you   said,    '  I   re 
nounce  the  devil  and  all  his  works,'  and  I 
wished  I  could  have  stood  by  you  and  said 
it,  too.    But  Job,  my  boy,  the  devil  has  a  big 
mortgage   on   Yankee   Sam,   and   he's   fore 
closing  it  to-night,  and  —  " 
The  tempest  shook  the  building,  and  Job 
lost  the  next  words  as 
the  old   man  rose  on 
his  elbow,  then   sank 
back  exhausted.     The 
wind  died  down,  and 
Job   tried   to   comfort 
him  with  some  words 
that     sounded     weak 
and  hollow  to  himself. 
But    the    dying    man 
roused    again,    and, 
raising   his   trembling 
hand,  said: 

"  Wait,  Job.  Get  the 
Book.  See  if  it  has 
anything  in  it  for 
me." 

Job  opened  to  those 
beautiful   words   in 
"Listen,  Job;  I  want  to  tell  you."  Isaiah:  "Though  your 

sins     be     as     scarlet, 

upstairs  to  a  low  garret  room,   where  the     they  shall  be  as  white  as  snow;  though  they 
door  closed  behind  him  and  left  him  alone     be  red  like  crimson,  they  shall  be  as  wool." 


with  a  weak  old  man  lying  on  a  low  bed, 
his  eyes  shining  in  the  dim  candle-light  with 
an  unnatural  glare. 

"  Oh,  Job,  I'm  mightly  glad  you've  come 
to  help  an  old  man  die!  Yes,  I  am  dying, 
Job;  the  old  man's  near  the  end.  I'll  no 
more  hang  around  the  Miners'  Home  and 


The  old  man  bent  his  ear  to  listen.  "  Job, 
let's  see  it.  Is  it  in  there  — '  red  like  crim 
son,  white  as  wool'?  Oh,  no,  my  sins  are 
too  red  for  that!  Listen,  Job,  I  want  to  tell 
you.  I  am  dying  a  poor  lost  sinner,  but 
I  was  not  always  a  street  loafer,  kicked 
and  cuffed  by  the  world.  Hear  me,  my 


beg  a  drink  from  the  stranger.    Curse  the     boy!    Would   you  believe  that   I   was  once 


rum,  Job!  It's  brought  me  here  where  you 
find  me,  a  good-for-nothing,  dying  without 
a  friend  in  the  world  —  yes,  one  friend,  Job; 
you're  my  friend,  ain't  you?" 

Job,  frightened  and  touched  to  the  heart, 
nodded  assent. 

"  I  thought  so,  Job.  I  take  stock  in  you. 
That  night  you  came  here,  a  blue-eyed,  lonely 


a  mother's  blue-eyed  boy  in  old  New  Hamp 
shire?  Oh,  such  a  mother!  She's  up 
where  the  angels  are  now.  I  can  feel  the 
soft  touch  of  her  hands  that  smoothed  my 
head  when  I  was  a  boy.  Oh,  I  wish  she 
was  here  to-night!  But  — Job,  Job,  I  killed 
her!  —  I  did!  I  came  home  with  the  liquor 
in  me  and  she  fell  in  a  faint,  and  they  said 


THE    TBANSFOEMAT10N   OF    JOB. 


41 


afterward  that  she  never  came  to.  Oh,  Job, 
I  killed  her,  and  I  didn't  care!  I  went  to  the 
city.  I  found  a  wife,  a  sweet-faced  little 
woman;  she  married  me  for  better  or  for 
worse;  and  Job,  it  was  worse  —  God  have 
mercy  on  me!" 

The  old  man  gasped  and  then  went  on. 
"  The  babies  came,  and  I  was  so  proud  of 
them!  Then  the  fever  broke  out.  1  went  to 
get  medicine  when  she  and  the  little  ones 
were  so  sick,  and  I  got  on  a  spree  —  I  don't 
remember  —  but  when  I  came  to,  they 
showed  me  their  graves  in  the  potter's  field; 
they  said  the  medicine  might  have  saved 
them.  Oh,  Job,  I  can't  think!  It  makes  me 
wild  to  think!" 

The  storm  burst  again  in  its  fury,  and  the 
old  man's  voice  was  silenced.  Then  came  a 
lull,  and  he  went  on,  "  Job.  '  sins  as  scar 
let.' —  ain't  they  scarlet?  Well,  I  came 
West,  got  in  the  mines,  went  from  bad  to 
worse  and  now,  Job,  I'm  dying!  And  who 
cares?" 

"God  cares,"  said  Job.  "Listen:  'For 
God  so  loved  the  world,  that  he  gave  his 
only  begotten  Son,  that  whosoever  believeth 
in  him  should  not  perish,  but  have  everlast 
ing  life.'  " 

"Oh,  Job,  does  that  mean  me?  — poor  old 
Yankee  Sam!"  said  the  dying  man. 

Again  Job  read  the  words,  and  once  again 
told  as  best  he  could  the  story  of  the 
Father's  love  and  of  Jesus,  who  came  to 
save  from  sin;  came  to  save  poor  lost  sin 
ners. 

The  old  man  hung  on  every  word.  "  Say 
it  again,  Job,  say  it  again!  God  loves  poor 
Yankee  Sam!  Say  it  again!" 

Over  and  over  Job  said  the  words,  then  he 
sang  soft  and  low: 

"  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  thy  bosom  fly," 

while  the  tempest  raged  without. 

"  Other  refuge  have  I  none, 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  thee." 

Just     then     Yankee     Sam     stopped     him. 


"Job,  that's  me,  that's  me!  Pray,  Job!  I 
am  going  fast!" 

Oh,  how  Job  prayed!  Prayed  till  he  felt 
God  close  by  that  dying  bed. 

"  '  As  scarlet '  —  yet  —  '  white  —  as  snow.' 
Is  that  it,  Job?"  whispered  Sam.  "  Oh,  yes. 
that's  it!  They're  gone,  Job  — the  devil's 
lost  his  mortgage.  Let  me  pray,  Job.  It's 
the  prayer  mother  said  for  me  when  I  was 
a  little  boy;  it's  the  prayer  Andy  Maiden 
said  at  his  lad's  grave;  it's  my  prayer  now: 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep, 
And  if— if— " 

The  low,  quavering  voice  ceased,  a  smile 
came  over  the  white  face,  the  wind  was 
hushed  without,  the  stars  struggled  through 
the  clouds.  Yankee  Sam  was  dead,  and 
peace  had  come  back  into  Job  Maiden's 
soul. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  YELLOW  JACKET  MINE. 

E  next  fall  Mr.  Maiden  got  Job  the 
place  of  assistant  cashier  at  the  Yel 
low  Jacket  Mine.  His  staunch  char 
acter,  his  local  fame  as  a  student  at  the 
Frost  Creek  school,  and  his  general  manly 
bearing,  added  to  Mr.  Maiden's  influence  in 
the  county,  won  him  the  place  when  the 
former  assistant  left  for  the  East.  Andrew 
Maiden  thought  it  would  be  a  good  experi 
ence  for  a  young  man  like  Job.  and  perhaps 
would  open  the  way  to  something  better 
than  a  lumber  mill  and  a  timber  and  stock 
ranch. 

The  Yellow  Jacket  Mine  was  one  of  the 
oldest  and  most  famous  in  the  whole  coun 
try.  It  was  the  very  day  they  sighted  the 
ship  off  Telegraph  Hill  that  brought  the 
news  Into  'Frisco  Bay  that  California  was 
admitted  as  a  State,  that  gold  was  discov 
ered  in  Yellow  Jacket  Creek,  where,  when 
the  rush  came  some  days  later,  the  men  said 


42 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


they  didn't  know  which  was  most  plenty  — 
yellow  jackets  in  the  air,  or  yellow  jackets 
in  the  gravel  bed  of  the  creek  as  it  lay  dry 
and  bare  in  the  summer  suu. 

At  last  the  creek  bed  had  been  washed 
over  and  over  till  the  red-shirted  miners 
could  find  not  one  nugget  more,  and  the 
Yellow  Jacket  was  deserted.  Then  one 
day  a  poor  stranded  fellow,  who  came  in  too 
late  to  make  enough  to  get  out,  was  digging 
a  well,  and  found  quartz  down  deep  and  a 
streak  of  gold  in  it.  That  was  the  beginning 
of  the  real  fame  of  the  Yellow  Jacket.  A 
company  bought  it  up,  machinery  was  put 
in,  and  now,  in  Job  Maiden's  day,  the  stamp 
mills  and  deep  tunnels  of  the  mine  kept  five 
hundred  men  busy  in  shifts  that  never 
ceased  night  or  day. 

Job  never  forgot  the  first  day  he  went 
there  as  assistant  cashier.  He  had  seen  it 
all  before,  but  when  one  is  a  sort  of  "  part 
ner  "  in  a  firm,  it  looks  different  to  one. 
And  so  it  did  to  Job,  as,  after  a  long  ride 
with  Tony  in  the  buckboard  down  the  Frost 
Creek  road,  up  past  Mike  Hennessy's,  down 
and  up  and  across  Rattlesnake  Gulch,  and 
over  the  heavily  timbered  mountain,  a  bend 
in  the  road  brought  him  in  full  view  of  the 
Yellow  Jacket  on  the  bare  hillside  opposite. 
The  tall  smoke-stacks  belching  forth  their 
black  clouds;  the  big  buildings  about  them; 
the  great  heap  of  waste  stuff  at  the  right; 
the  dump-cars  running  out  and  back;  the 
miners'  shanties  bare  and  brown  on  the  left, 
running  up  the  hillside,  hugging  the  break 
neck  steeps;  the  handsome  house  on  the 
south  which  he  knew  must  be  the  superin 
tendent's  home;  the  tall,  ungainly  brick 
structure  of  the  company's  store  in  the  heart 
of  things;  the  far-off  thump,  thump,  and  the 
ceaseless  roar  of  the  machinery  —  all  this 
made  a  deep  impression  on  Job. 

For  a  year,  at  least,  he  was  to  live  amid 
this  scene.  What  a  strange  life  it  was  for 
Job  there  at  the  Yellow  Jacket!  There,  In 
sight  of  the  eternal  hills;  there,  only  five 
miles,  in  an  air-line,  from  the  quiet  ranch, 
from  Bess,  the  great  barns,  the  world  of 


nature,  and  home  —  and  yet  it  seemed  five 
thousand  miles  away  to  him.  Shut  in  that 
little  office  behind  the  iron  bars,  bending 
over  the  great  books  sometimes  far  into  the 
night,  looking  out  each  pay-day  through  a 
little  arched  window  on  grimy  faces  and 
rough-bearded  men  who  held  out  toil-worn 
hands  to  receive  the  week's  earnings  which 
long  before  another  week  would  find  their 
way  into  some  saloon  -  keeper's  till  or 
gambler's  pocket. 

The  only  out-door  world  he  saw  was  be 
tween  the  rear  door  of  the  office  and  the 
long,  low  boarding-house  where  the  fore 
men  and  clerks  lived.  One  corner  of  the 
great  room  upstairs,  where  a  hard  bed  ran 
up  against  the  roof,  and  one  place  at  the 
long,  oilcloth-covered  table,  he  had  the  priv 
ilege  to  call  his  own  for  the  modest  sum  of  a 
gold  piece  a  week.  He  had  every  other  Sun 
day  to  himself  by  the  extreme  favor  of  the 
"  boss."  on  whose  own  calendar  Sunday 
never  came,  and  who  could  not  see  why  it 
should  on  any  one's  else. 

At  first,  .lob  left  the  narrow,  well-worn 
streets,  always,  it  seemed  to  him,  crowded 
with  an  endless  procession  of  dirty,  pale- 
faced,  muscular,  rough  men  going  to  and 
from  shifts;  left  them  far  behind  and 
tramped  over  to  the  Frost  Creek  school, 
redolent  with  peculiar  memories,  to  the  af 
ternoon  service.  But  when  the  snows  came 
and  winter  set  in,  he  dared  not  take  the  long 
tramps,  but  hugged  the  fire  at  his  boarding- 
house,  read  his  little  Testament,  and  tried 
in  vain  to  find  one  spot  out  of  hearing  of 
the  noise  of  tramping  feet,  the  roar  of  the 
stamp-mill,  and  the  hoarse  laughter  and 
rude  stories  and  language  of  the  men  ever 
coming  and  going. 

He  could  never  get  away  from  the  sound, 
and  only  in  an  old,  abandoned  shaft  back 
of  the  office  could  he  crawl  down  out  of  sight 
to  pray.  But  Job  never  forgot  to  pray  in 
those  days.  He  was  learning,  as  never  be 
fore,  what  it  is  to  be  in  the  world  and  yet 
not  of  it;  in  its  turmoil  and  din,  sharing  its 
work,  mingling  with  its  stiange  humanity, 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF   JOB. 


43 


and  yet  living  in  the  atmosphere  of  prayer 
and  high  thinking;  in  a  world  of  impurity, 
yet  living  a  pure  life;  a  world  of  evil  words, 
and  yet  never  even  thinking  them;  in  the 
world,  and  yet  not  of  it. 

Job  Maiden  was  fast  growing  into  man 
hood.  It  was  in  those  long  winter  days  at 
the  Yellow  Jacket  that  the  heart  came  back 
to  him  and  somehow  he  found  himself 
thinking  of  Jane  Reed.  The  bitter  memory 
of  the  folly  of  those  days  last  winter  at  the 
Frost  Creek  school  still  haunted  him,  and 
yet  the  hardness  had  gone  out  of  his  soul. 
He  had  no  right  to  think  of  Jane,  he  felt; 
he  had  forfeited  all  claim  to  her  affection. 
But  somehow  the  old  love  came  back,  and 
he  longed  to  go  to  her  and  be  forgiven. 
What  a  true  girl  she  was!  —  a  child  of  the 
mountains.  Little  she  knew  of  the  city  and 
its  guile,  of  society  and  its  masks.  How 
could  he  ever  have  thought  her  common  or 
beneath  him!  She  towered  up  in  his 
thought  like  the  pines  of  her  native  moun 
tains,  as  fresh  and  natural  and  wild  as  they. 
He  would  not  have  her  different.  She  was 
far  above  him.  Faith,  and  church,  and 
simple  homely  virtues,  and  all  that  is  holy, 
were  linked  in  Job's  mind  with  the  memory 
of  artless,  honest,  great-hearted  Jane  that 
came  back  to  him  in  the  lonely  hours  at  the 
mine. 

One  day  he  started  back  at  seeing  a 
strangely  familiar  face  present  itself  at  the 
pay  window. 

"  Oh,  yer  needn't  be  scart.  Job,  because  yer 
old  pard's  got  a  job  in  the  Yellow  Jacket  as 
well  as  yer."  It  was  Dan's  voice.  "  Must 
be  mighty  nice  in  there  handin'  out  the 
boodle  to  us  poor,  hard-worked  laborers; 
mighty  easy  to  tuck  a  little  of  it  in  yer 
pocket  now  and  then." 

Job  colored,  and  replied  that  it  was  not 
his  money,  and  he  only  took  his  pay  like  the 
men. 

"  Mighty  good  yet,  ain't  yer,  Job;  playin' 
the  pious  dodge  still.  Thought  perhaps  the 
way  that  schoolma'am  jilted  yer  would  take 
the  big-head  out  of  yer.  Well,  I  don't  make 


any  pretense  of  bein'  pious;  don't  need  to, 
as  I  can  see  —  get  all  I  want  without  it. 
xSvery  gal  in  town  wants  me,  and  a  fine  one 
that  came  near  gettin'  fooled  on  yer  likes 
me  purty  well.  In  fact,  that's  what's 
brought  me  over  to  the  mine  —  got  to  get  a 
little  stuff  to  fix  up  the  house  for  her. 
When  a  fellow  brings  a  wife  home,  he  wants 
the  old  place  lookin'  slick.  Good-day,  Job. 
See  yer  again." 

Job  made  no  reply,  but  a  lump  came  into 
his  throat.  He  stood  and  stared,  and  then 
turned  in  an  absent-minded  way  and  bent 
his  head  over  the  great  ledger,  though  he 
seemed  not  to  care  which  page  opened. 
Jane  to  marry  Dan!  Was  that  what  he  had 
meant?  Had  it  come  to  that?  Once  Job  had 
not  cared,  but  now  the  thought  made  him 
wild.  Could  it  be  true?  Jane  to  marry  Dan 
Dean!  Better  she  were  dead.  Job  felt  he 
could  see  her  carried  to  the  grave  with  less 
sorrow  than  to  see  her  Dan's  wife. 

It  was  very  strange  how  Job  came  to  be 
the  preacher  at  the  Yellow  Jacket  mine. 
Not  that  he  ever  put  on  clerical  garb  or  de 
serted  the  office  or  was  anything  more  than 
a  plain,  everyday  Christian.  Yet  there  came 
a  time  when  in  the  eyes  of  those  rough 
miners,  with  hearts  far  more  tender  than  one 
would  think  from  their  exterior  —  and  not 
only  in  their  eyes,  but  in  those  of  the  few 
wives  and  the  half-clad  children  who  played 
on  the  waste  heap  — Job  came  to  be  called 
"  The  Reverend,"  and  looked  up  to  as  a 
spiritual  leader. 

It  was  the  day  that  he  went  down  to  the 
eight-hundred-foot  level  that  it  began.  He 
well  remembered  it.  Up  to  the  left  of  the 
stamp-mill,  not  far  from  the  main  office, 
was  a  square,  red-painted  building,  up  whose 
steps,  just  as  the  bell  in  the  brick  store's 
tower  struck  the  set  time,  a  procession  of 
clean-faced  miners  went  in  and  a  procession 
of  grimy  ones  came  out.  It  was  at  the  one 
o'clock  shift  that  Job  went  in  that  day. 
watched  the  men  hang  their  coats  on  what 
seemed  to  him  an  endless  line  of  pegs,  take 


44 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


their  stand  one  by  one  on  the  little  platform 
which  stood  in  the  center  of  the  floor  like  a 
trap-door,  grasp  the  iron-bar  above  them, 
and  at  the  tinkling  of  a  bell  vanish  suddenly 
down  into  darkness  out  of  sight. 

It  was  the  first  time  Job  had  been  down 
the  mine.  The  sight  of  the  constantly-disap 
pearing  figures  on  the  cage  that  came  and 
went  did  not  encourage  him  to  go,  but  soon 
It  was  his  turn.  One  of  the  men  he  knew 
grasped  one  side  of  the  bar  of  the  trapeze 
over  him,  one  the  other,  the  bell  tinkled,  and 
down  he  dropped  with  a  jump  that  almost 
took  his  breath;  down  past  long,  subter 
ranean  tunnels  of  arched  rock,  which,  from 
the  heat  he  felt  from  them,  and  the  blinding 
glare  of  the  lights^  seemed  to  him  like  the 
furnaces  of  Vulcan.  Further  still  he  dropped 
to  the  eight-hundred-foot  level,  where  he 
stepped  off  in  a  narrow  cavern  dimly 
lighted  and  stretching  away  into  the  distant 
darkness.  Oh,  how  hot  it  was!  The  brawny, 
white-chested  miners  had  thrown  off  all 
clothing  but  their  trousers,  and  were  divid 
ing  their  time  between  mighty  blows  on  the 
great  solid  rocks,  and  the  air-shaft  and  tub 
of  water,  where  every  few  minutes  they  had 
to  go  and  bathe  lungs  and  face.  The  sound 
of  the  picks,  the  rattle  of  the  ore  cars 
bringing  the  stuff  to  be  hauled  up  the  shaft, 
the  steady  thump,  thump,  of  the  pumps  re 
moving  the  water  from  the  lower  levels,  the 
Intermittent  drop  and  rise  of  the  cage,  filled 
the  weird  place  with  strange  sounds. 

Job  had  delivei'ed  his  message  to  the 
"  boss "  of  the  tunnel  and  was  hurrying 
back  to  the  cage,  when  a  half-naked  miner, 
all  stained  with  the  ever-dripping  ooze  from 
above,  stopped  him  and  said: 

"  Be  ye  the  faither  that  prayed  Yankee 
Sam  t' rough?" 

"  Why  —  yes,  and  no,"  answered  Job.  "  I 
was  with  Yankee  Sam  when  he  died,  but 
I'm  no  priest  or  parson." 

"  Aye,  I  said  to  Pat  it  was  ye  as  ye  went 
down,  priest  or  not.  I've  heard  of  ye,  and 
the  mon  that  could  shrive  Yankee  Sam  is 
a  good  enough  priest  for  any  mon.  Now. 


me  boy  Tim  is  dying,  the  only  son 
of  his  mother,  and  she  in  her  grave.  And 
Tim  and  me,,  we  live  alone  in  the  hut  back 
of  Finnigan's  saloon.  Tim's  a  frail  lad.  He 
would  work  in  the  mines,  and  the  hot  air  in 
this  place  and  the  cold  air  whin  he  wint  up 
gave  him  the  lung  faver,  and  the  doctor  says 
he's  got  to  go.  The  next  shift  I'm  going  up 
to  him.  Meet  me  at  the  pump-house.  Don't 
tell  him  yez  is  not  a  priest;  it's  all  the  same 
to  him,  and  he'll  die  aisier  if  he  thinks  the 
faither's  come.  Poor  Tim,  me  only  boy!" 

What  could  Job  do  but  consent?  What 
could  he  do  late  that  afternoon  but  meet  the 
broken-hearted  Irish  father  at  the  pump- 
house  and  climb  the  steep  street  to  Finni 
gan's,  and  go  in  back  to  the  poor  hut  that 
the  miner  called  home? 

On  a  low,  matted  bed  of  straw  and  a  torn 
blanket  or  two,  in  a  corner  of  the  dismal 
shanty,  through  which  the  cold  winds  swept, 
lay  Tim,  dying.  The  hectic  flush  was  on  his 
thin  cheek,  the  glaze  of  death  seemed  in  his 
eye.  He  reached  his  wan  hand  to  Job.  A 
lad  of  sixteen  he  was,  but  no  more  years  of 
life  were  there  for  him. 

"  Tim,  the  faither's  come.  Tim,  me  boy, 
confess  now  and  get  ready  for  hiven." 

The  boy  glanced  up.  Perhaps  Job  did 
look  like  a  priest,  with  his  smooth  face  and 
manly  countenance.  He  hardly  knew  what 
to  say  or  do  except  to  take  that  weak  hand 
in  his  and  press  it  with  a  brother's  warm 
clasp  of  sympathy.  The  dying  boy  touched 
his  inmost  heart 

"  Faither,"  the  boy  faltered.  "  I  am  so 
sick!  I  have  been  a  bad  boy  sometimes. 
I  —  I  — "  Then  he  stopped  to  cough,  and 
continued,  "  I  haven't  been  to  mass  in  a 
year  —  no  chance  here,  faither  —  and  I  got 
drunk  last  Fourth  —  may  the  Holy  Mother 
forgive  me!  — and  I  have  been  so  bad  some 
times.  But  —  "  and  he  faltered,  "1  had  a 
good  mother,  and  she  had  me  christened 
right  early." 

"  Aye,  she  was!"  sobbed  Tim's  father. 

"And,"  Tim  went  on,  "and  I'm  so  sorry 
for  the  bad!  When  you  say  the  prayers,  tell 


THE    TEANSFORMAT1ON    OF   JOB. 


45 


her  I'm  sorry;  for,  somehow  I  think  the 
blessed  Jesus  "  —  and  here  the  boy  crossed 
himself  —  "  the  blessed  Tesus  will  hear  my 
mother's  prayer  for  Tim  as  soon  as  he'd 
hear  his  own.  Faither,  is  it  wrong  to  think 
so?" 

And  Job,  thinking  of  his  own  mother,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes  could  only  say,  "  No,  Tim, 
no." 

The  lad  grew  still;  and  kneeling,  Job 
talked  low  of  God's  great  love,  as  he  had 
talked  to  Yankee  Sam,  prayed  as  best  he 
could,  and  felt  as  if  he  had  indeed  com 
mitted  this  mother's  boy  into  the  keeping  of 
his  God,  as  Tim  lay  still  and  dead  before 
him. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

LIGHTS    AND    SHADOWS. 

F  I  ^HE  news  of  Job's  visit  to  the  dying 
boy  soon  spread  through  all  the 
miners'  shanties,  and  soon  more  than 
one  request  came  to  him  for  sympathy  and 
help.  Preacher  or  priest,  or  only  humble 
Job  Maiden  —  it  mattered  not  what  they 
thought  of  him.  Job  went  on  his  errands  of 
mercy,  till,  unconsciously  to  himself,  he  had 
won  his  way  into  the  hearts  of  those  rough, 
simple-hearted  people,  who  lived  more  un 
derground  than  above,  at  the  Yellow  Jacket 
Mine.  In  fact,  so  generally  did  he  become 
known  as  "  The  Parson,"  that  it  was  some 
times  uncomfortable,  especially  on  the  occa 
sion  when  Lem  Jones  wanted  to  get  mar 
ried.  Oh.  that  was  amusing! 

It  was  in  the  spring.  The  new  tri-weekly 
stage  from  Gold  City  was  so  late  that  night 
that  it  was  pitch  dark  before  it  drew  up, 
with  a  flourish,  at  the  store.  Job  was  busy 
at  the  books,  and  had  not  gone  to  supper, 
when  a  man  came  peeping  in  at  the  window 
and  shouted  through  the  glass: 
"Job,  you're  wanted  at  Finuigan's  Hotel!'' 
Donning  his  cap,  and  hurrying  along  the 
street  and  up  the  break-neck  stairs  to  Firi- 
nlgan's.  Job  entered  the  room  which  served 


as  parlor,  bar  and  office,  and  saw  Lem  Jones, 
one  of  the  men  at  the  hoisting  works, 
"  dressed  up  "  in  a  suit  much  too  large  for 
him,  with  high  white  collar  and  red  tie, 
while  near  by  sat  a  tall,  unnaturally  rosy- 
cheeked  spinster  dressed  in  a  trailing  white 
gown,  with  orange  blossoms  covering  a 
white  veil  hung  over  her  hair,  and  an  im 
mense  feather  fan  in  her  white-gloved  hand. 
Around  the  room,  decorated  with  some 
Christmas  greens  and  lit  by  a  red-hot  stove, 
was  gathered  a  group  of  interested  observ 
ers  of  all  descriptions  —  some  evidently  in 
vited  guests,  some  as  evidently  not. 

"  Mr.  Parson,  this  'ere's  my  gal,  come  from 
down  East.  We  want  to  get  spliced,  and." 
with  a  blush,  "  we're  waitin'  for  ye  to  do 
it." 

"Why,  Lem,  I  can't!"  stammered  Job. 
quite  abashed  and  taken  aback  at  the  occur 
rence. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  interrupted  Lem,  "  1  thought 
of  that.  Here's  the  paper  —  got  it  myself  of 
the  clerk.  Read  it.  See,  here  it  is:  '  Lemuel 
Jones,  a  native  of  Maine  and  resident  of  the 
county  of  Grizzly,  aged  thirty-seven,  and 
Phebe  Ann  Standish,  a  native  of  Massachu 
setts,  resident  of  Boston,  State  of  Massachu 
setts,  aged  thirty-one  —  " 

Quick  as  a  flash,  drowning  Job's  protest 
that  he  was  not  a  preacher,  came  a  woman's 
shrill  voice: 

"  Thirty-one!  I'd  like  to  know  who  said  I 
was  thirty-one!  Lem  Jones,  take  your  pen 
and  ink,  and  correct  that.  Anybody  would 
know  I  am  only  twenty-one!" 

A  general  laugh  followed.  Job-  finally 
found  a  chance  to  make  the  pair  understand 
that  his  performing  the  ceremony  was  out 
of  the  question,  as  he  had  no  legal  authority 
—  was  not  a  minister. 

The  wedding  party  broke  up  in  confusion. 
The  cook  was  filled  with  wrath  at  Job  for 
spoiling  the  dinner;  "  the  boys "  insisted 
that  he  had  kept  Jones  from  "  settin'  it  up," 
and  ought  to  do  so  himself;  the  bride  refused 
to  be  comforted  and  vowed  she  would  go 
back  to  Boston. 


46 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


It  was  less  than  a  week  after  the  wedding 
which  did  not  come  off,  that  Job  saw  Dan 
at  the  pay-window  beckoning  to  him.  Going 
nearer,  Dan  motioned  him  to  lean  over, 
drew  him  close,  and  whispered  in  his  ear: 

"  I'm  broke,  Job,  but  got  a  fine  chance  to 
clear  a  slick  hundred.  Lend  me  fifty  till 
to-morrow." 

"  I  can't  do  that,  Dan."  Job  replied.  "  It's 
not  mine,  and  I  wouldn't  take  a  cent  of  the 
company's  money  for  myself." 

"  Ye're  a  pretty  parson!"  hissed  Dan. 
*'  sayin'  prayers  over  dyin'  folks,  and  never 
helpin'  yer  own  cousin  out  of  a  tight  place!" 

"  But,  Dan,  I  can't  take  the  company's 
money.  If  I  had  fifty  of  my  own  you  should 
have  it,  though  I  suspect  you  want  to  gamble 
with  it,"  replied  Job. 

"  Yer  won't  give  it  to  me?"  said  the  other. 

"  No,  I  can't,  Dan."  Job  answered  in  a  firm 
voice. 

"Yer  hypocrite!  Yer  think  yer  got  the 
cinch  on  me,  don't  yer,  Job  Maiden!  'It's 
a  long  lane  that  has  no  turn,'  they  say,  and 
yer'll  wish  some  day  yer'd  treated  Dan  Dean 
square!"  and  he  turned  with  a  leer  and  v.-as 
gone. 

More  than  once  after  that  Job  felt  uneasy 
and  wretched  as  he  thought  of  the  possi 
bility  of  Jane's  linking  her  life  with  that  of 
Daniel  Dean.  Twice  he  tried  to  write  her, 
but  he  blotted  the  paper  in  his  nervousness, 
and  at  last  tore  the  letters  up. 

By  a  strange  coincidence,  it  was  the  same 
week  that  Andrew  Maiden  struck  a  rich 
pocket  of  gold  back  of  Lookout  Point  and 
secretly  carried  It  down  to  Gold  City  bank 
and  paid  off  the  mortgage  on  the  four  hun 
dred  acres  back  of  the  mill,  that  Job  Maiden 
was  held  up. 

This  is  how  it  happened:  Just  after  hours 
one  night  the  superintendent  called  Job  into 
his  private  office  and  said: 

"  Young  man,  how  much  will  you  sell  your 
self  for?" 

Decidedly  startled,  Job  answered:  "What 
do  you  mean,  sir?" 

"  I   mean,"   said   the  portly,   gray  -  haired 


man.  with  his  set  mouth  and  black  eyes,  all 
business,  "  Can  I  trust  you  with  a  large  sum 
of  money?  or  will  the  temptation  to  use  it 
for  yourself  be  too  strong?" 

"  Sir,"  answered  Job  indignantly,  "  sir,  I 
have  no  price!  I  want  none  but  honest 
money  as  mine." 

"Well,  all  right,  my  boy;  I  guess  I  can 
trust  you."  said  his  employer.  "  Now,  I  have 
some  bullion  to  be  taken  down  to  the  Wells- 
Fargo  office  at  Gold  City,  to  go  off  on  the 
morning  stage.  You  will  find  Dick,  my 
horse,  saddled  at  the  stable.  Eat  some  sup 
per,  mount  Dick,  come  around  to  the  rear  of 
my  house,  and  the  bag  will  be  waiting.  Take 
it  down  to  the  Wells-Fargo  office,  where  the 
man  will  be  waiting  to  get  it.  I  have  sent 
him  word.  Hurry  now!  And  mind  you 
don't  lose  any  of  it.  Will  give  you  a  week's 
extra  pay  if  you  get  through  all  right." 

With  a  "  Thank  you,  sir;  I'll  do  the  best  I 
can,"  Job  hurried  off  on  his  responsible  er 
rand. 

It  was  a  beautiful  moonlight  evening  in 
June.  Crossing  the  summit  of  the  moun 
tain,  the  fresh  breeze  fanned  his  brow, 
heated  with  the  warm  day's  labor,  and  he 
walked  Dick  along,  drinking  in  once  more 
with  genuine  joy  the  grandeur  of  the  forests 
robed  in  silver  light.  Just  beyond  Mike 
Hennessy's.  as  he  turned  into  the  main 
road,  clouds  obscured  the  moon  and  a  som 
ber  pall  fell  over  the  road.  He  felt  to  see 
that  his  treasure  was  safe,  and  urged  Dick 
into  a  canter. 

He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  thought  he 
heard  horse's  hoofs  behind  him.  He  stopped 
to  listen,  his  heart  beating  a  little  more 
quickly,  and  then  hurried  on.  Again,  more 
distinctly,  he  heard  them  coming  down  the 
last  hill.  He  put  spurs  to  Dick  as  a  strange 
fear  came  over  him.  Up  the  hill  before  him 
he  rode  at  a  gallop,  and  on  down  the  next. 
Faster  and  louder  in  the  dim  darkness  rang 
the  hoofs  of  the  horse  behind  him.  He 
was  being  pursued  —  there  was  no  doubt  of 
it  now.  If  there  had  been,  the  report  of  a 
pistol  and  the  whiz  of  a  bullet  past  his  head 


THE    TEANSFOBMAT10N    OF    JOB. 


47 


would  have  quickly  dispelled  it.  Then  be 
gan  a  wild  chase.  Up  hill  and  down  hill, 
over  rough  creek-beds,  down  the  Gold  City 
road,  they  flew.  How  Job  wished  for  Bess! 
She  could  have  outdistanced  any  horse,  but 
Dick  was  not  her  equal.  The  hoof-beats  in 
the  rear  grew  louder. 

Job  was  just  going  over  the  hill  to  Mormon 
Bar,  on  that  narrow  place  where  the  bank 
pitches  down  to  the  creek  two  hundred  feet, 
when  he  heard  a  voice,  emphasized  by  a 
ringing  bullet,  cry: 

"  Halt,  you  thief!  I'm  the  sheriff  of  Griz 
zly  county!" 

Whether  it  was  because  Dick  stumbled 
and  almost  fell,  or  because  -his  strength 
failed,  or  because  of  the  bullet  and  the 
strange  command.  Job  halted,  stunned,  to 
look  into  the  dark  barrel  of  a  pistol  and  to 
see  the  white,  masked  face  of  a  slim  fellow 
in  blue  jean  overalls  and  with  a  red  hand 
kerchief  about  his  throat. 

"  Hand  over  that  boodle  mighty  quick! 
Thought  I  was  a  sheriff,  did  yer?  Ha!  ha! 
None  of  your  back  talk!  Give  it  here  or 
swallow  this!"  poking  the  pistol  into  Job's 
very  mouth.  The  voice  was  familiar  —  more 
than  once  Job  had  heard  it. 

He  sprang  from  Dick  to  run  as  the  other 
held  his  bridle,  but  heard  the  whiz  of  a  bul 
let  past  him  and  felt  a  stunning  blow  on  his 
head.  When  he  came  to.  the  treasure  was 
gone  and  he  could  hear  a  horse's  hoofs 
pounding  faintly  in  the  distance.  On  his 
side,  with  the  blood  oozing  from  his  temples, 
Dick  —  poor  Dick  — lay  dead! 

It  was  a  long  walk  back  to  the  mine,  and 
the  first  morning  shift  was  going  to  work 
when  Job  reached  there.  The  superinten 
dent  heard  his  tale,  and  without  comment 
told  him  to  get  his  breakfast  and  go  to  work. 
Later  he  called  Job  in  and  sisked  some  very 
strange  questions.  Twice  during  the  follow 
ing  day  with  aching  head  and  troubled  heart 
Job  tried  to  get  another  interview  with  the 
superintendent,  but  failed. 

How  it  came  about  he  never  knew,  but 
before  the  end  of  the  week  it  was  common 


gossip  around  the  mine  that  Job  had  made 
way  with  the  company's  bullion  to  clear  off 
the  mortgage  on  Andrew  Maiden's  place. 
Job  had  never  heard  of  the  mortgage,  and 
he  tried  to  tell  the  superintendent  so;  but  he 
would  not  listen.  All  he  did  was  to  tell  Job 
on  Saturday  night  that  they  did  not  know 
who  took  the  money,  but  they  would  need 
his  services  no  longer. 

It  was  just  as  Andrew  Maiden  was  locking 
the  doors  for  the  night,  that  —  with  a  small 
bundle  thrown  over  his  shoulder,  shame 
faced,  discouraged,  and  so  tired  he  could 
hardly  walk  another  step  —  Job  pushed 
in  and  sat  down  in  the  old  rocker.  The 
older  man  was  surprised  enough.  What 
did  it  all  mean?  Job  had  soon  told  his  story 
—  the  night  ride,  the  robbery,  the  long  walk 
back  to  the  mine,  the  strange  suspicion  that 
had  fallen  on  him,  the  refusal  to  believe  his 
story,  the  coldness  of  his  employers,  his  dis 
missal,  and  the  sad  walk  home.  He  told  it 
all  through,  then  looking  up  into  Andrew 
Maiden's  face,  said  brokenly: 

"  God  knows,  uncle,  it's  true,  every  word!" 

Andrew  Maiden  never  doubted  the  blue- 
eyed,  homeless  boy  who  had  grown  to  be 
the  stalwart  young  man  on  whom  he  leaned 
more  and  more.  It  was  a  great  comfort  to 
Job  when  the  old  man  told  him  this,  and 
declared  he  would  go  over  there  in  the 
morning  and  settle  this  matter;  they  would 
believe  Andrew  Maiden.  Then  he  thought 
of  the  mortgage;  he  had  paid  that,  and  no 
one  knew  where  he  got  the  money  —  and 
now  perhaps  they  would  not  believe  him  if 
he  did  tell  them.  Perhaps  he  had  better  not 
go  after  all. 

Late  into  the  night  the  two  talked  it  over, 
till  they  saw  how  dark  things  really  looked 
for  them.  Well  enough  they  knew  who  was 
the  guilty  person,  but  who  could  prove  it? 
Finally  Andrew  Maiden  took  down  the  old 
family  Bible  and  read:  "  What  shall  separ 
ate  us  from  the  love  of  Christ?  Shall  tribu 
lation,  or  distress,  or  persecution,  or  famine, 
or  nakedness,  or  peril,  or  sword?"  The 


48 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


reader  laid  stress  on  that  word  "  persecu 
tion."  On  he  read:  "  I  am  persuaded  that 
neither  death,  nor  life,  nor  angels,  nor  prin 
cipalities,  nor  powers,  nor  things  present, 
nor  things  to  come,  nor  height,  nor  depth, 
nor  any  other  creature,  shall  be  able  to  sep 
arate  us  from  the  love  of  God,  which  is  in 
Christ  Jesus." 

"  Amen,"  said  Job,  as  the  old  man  laid 
down  the  book.  "  Yes,  and  it  says  that  '  all 
things  work  together  for  good  to  them  that 
love  God.'  " 

Together  they  knelt  in  prayer,  and  to  Him 
who  knows  the  secret  integrity  of  our 
hearts,  as  well  as  our  secret  sins,  they  com 
mitted  the  burden  that  rested  on  their  souls. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  a  lovely  June 
Sunday.  The  sunbeams  were  playing  across 
his  face  when  Job  awoke,  and  the  fragrance 
of  roses  filled  the  room  as  they  looked  in  at 
the  open  window.  How  still  and  beautiful 
was  all  the  world!  No  thumping  machinery, 
no  jangling  voices,  no  grimy  faces  passing 
the  window!  Flowers  and  sunshine  and  the 
songs  of  birds,  and  —  home!  Oh,  how  happy 
he  felt! 

He  dropped  on  his  knees  the  first  thing, 
in  a  prayer  that  was  almost  a  psalm.  He 
went  downstairs  in  two  jumps,  and  was  out 
hugging  Bess  in  no  time,  telling  he»-  she  was 
the  best  horse  that  ever  lived.  Then  he 
went  racing  Shot  down  to  the  milk-house, 
where  lie  nearly  iipset  Tony  with  a  pail  of 
foaming  milk.  The  big  fellow  stared  and 
said: 

"  'Pears  like  you  done  gone  clean  crazy. 
Marse  Job!  Guess  you  think  you's  a  kid 
agin!" 

When  Job  took  the  pail  away  from  him 
and  bore  it  safely  in  on  his  head,  Tony 
chuckled  and  said,  "  Bress  de  Lawd,  Marse 
Job!  You's  mighty  good  to  me." 

Job  waited  for  no  more  of  Tony's  praises, 
but  hurried  off,  with  Shot  bai'king  at  his 
heels.  Never  had  the  old  ranch  looked  more 
beautiful  to  him  —  the  house  yard,  the  big 
barns,  the  giant  pasture  lot  with  the  clump 
of  live-oaks  next  the  yard,  the  forests  on  all 


four  sides,  the  wild-flowers  covering  the  pas 
ture  with  a  variegated  carpet,  the  garden  on 
the  side  hill.  Job  was  a  boy  again,  and  he 
came  in  panting,  to  nearly  run  over  Sing, 
the  new  Chinese  cook,  who  was  not  used  to 
such  scenes  at  quiet  Pine  Tree  Ranch. 

Not  long  after  breakfast  they  had  prayers, 
at  which  Job  insisted  that  Tony  and  Hans 
and  Sing  should  all  be  present.  As  he  looked 
around  at  the  scene,  the  African  and  Mongo 
lian  sitting  attentive  while  he  read  the 
words,  "  They  shall  come  from  the  east  and 
the  west,  and  sit  down  in  the  kingdom  of 
God,"  he  thought  the  promise  was  kept  that 
morning  at  the  ranch. 

After  devotions,  Sing  surprised  them  all 
by  saying,  "  Me  Clistian.  Me  go  to  mission 
in  Chinatown,  San  Flancisco.  Me  say  idols 
no  good.  Me  play  (pray)  heap.  Jeso  he  lub 
Sing.  Me  feel  heap  good." 

They  were  overjoyed.  Andy  Maiden  shook 
hands  heartily  all  around.  Hans  said,  "  Iii 
Vaterland,  Hans  was  sehr  goot;  pray  for 
Hans,  he  goot  here." 

That  was  the  great  love-feast  at  Pine  Tree 
Ranch,  which  Tony  loved  to  tell  about  as 
long  as  he  lived. 

The  church  was  crowded  that  Sunday 
when  Job  and  Andrew  Maiden  drove  up  be 
hind  the  team  of  grays,  with  a  lunch  tucked 
under  the  seat,  so  they  could  stay  all  day. 
It  was  Communion  Sunday.  The  neat  white 
cloth  which  covered  the  table  in  front  of  the 
pulpit  told  the  story  as  they  pushed  their 
way  in.  The  congregation  was  singing, 
"  Safely  through  another  week,  God  has 
brought  us  on  our  way,"  and  Job  thought 
it  was  a  long,  long  week  since  he  had  sat 
in  the  old  church  and  heard  that  hymn. 
How  natural  it  looked!  The  bare  white 
walls,  with  here  and  there  a  crack  which 
had  carved  a  not  inartistic  line  up  the  sides. 
The  stiff  wooden  pulpit,  almost  hid  to-day 
under  the  June  roses.  The  same  preacher 
who  had  said  that  Christmas  night,  "Wilt 
thou  be  baptized  in  this  faith?"  The  little 
organ  in  the  corner.  The  old  familiar  faces 
looking  up  from  the  benches,  and  some  new 


THE    TBANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


49 


ones.  There  had  been  a  revival  that  winter 
in  the  church,  and  now  Job  could  see  its 
results.  The  whole  congregation  was 
sprinkled  with  faces  he  used  to  see  in  the 
saloons  and  on  the  streets,  but  had  never 
hoped  to  see  in  church.  Aye,  and  there  were 
some  faces  missing.  Where  was  old 
Grandpa  Reynolds,  who  at  that  long  -  ago 
camp  -  meeting  sang  "  Palms  of  victory, 
crowns  of  glory  I  shall  wear  "  ?  A  strange 
feeling  came  over  Job  as  he  remembered 
that  he  had  gone  Home  to  wear  the  crown 
of  a  sainted  life. 

"  Some  of  the  host  have  crossed  the  flood, 
And  some  are  crossing  over." 

The  choir  was  singing  the  words.  Job 
thought  again  of  the  aged  saint.  He  thought 
of  Yankee  Sam  and  that  wild  night  when  he 
died;  of  Tim,  poor  Irish  Tim;  and  then  of 
that  sweet  face  in  the  plain  wooden  casket 
in  the  strange  California  city  —  his  boy 
hood's  idol  —  and  the  tears  started  to  his 
eyes. 

"  Unto  you  therefore  which  believe,  He 
is  precious."  That  was  the  text.  The 
preacher  was  beginning  the  sermon,  and  Job 
called  back  his  thoughts  and  leaned  forward 
to  listen. 

"  I  think  the  tears  were  streaming  down 
Peter's  face  when  he  uttered  these  words. 
The  memories  of  a  lifetime  crowded  upon 
him.  He  was  a  young  man  back  by  the 
Lake  of  Gennesaret,  and  looked  up  to  see 
Andrew's  excited  face  and  hear  him  say, 
'  Peter,  brother,  we  have  found  the  great 
man;  we  have  found  the  Messiah.'  He  was 
by  those  same  waters  mending  the  nets, 
ready  to  push  out  for  the  day's  toil,  and  lo! 
he  heard  a  voice  —  oh.  how  wonderful  it 
was!  — there  was  authority  in  it,  soul  in  it: 
'  Peter,  come  follow  me,'  and  he  dropped  the 
nets,  and  went  out  to  life's  sea  to  fish  for 
men.  Ah,  yes,  I  think  as  Peter  wrote  these 
words  he  remembered  his  solemn  vows  of 
loyalty,  his  ecstatic  joy  on  the  Mount  of 
Transfiguration,  and  then,  alas!  his  awful 
sin  when  he  deserted  Jesus  in  that  dark 


terrible  morning  of  the  great  trial.  Oh. 
those  bitter  hours!  Peter  could  not  forget 
them." 

Job  trembled;  he  knew  what  the  preacher 
meant,  he  knew  how  Peter  felt. 

"  But,"  continued  the  speaker,  "  how  sweet 
there  came  back  to  him  the  memory  of  an 
other  morning  by  the  same  Galilean  waters, 
as  he  mused  in  the  twilight,  and  heard  the 
Savior  call,  not  in  anger  but  in  love,  '  Simon, 
son  of  Jonas,  lovest  thou  me?'  And  back 
again,  there  where  he  had  first  loved  Him, 
Peter  came  to  the  old  life  of  love  and  loy 
alty.  Memories  of  Pentecost,  memories  of 
life's  trials  and  joys,  ever  transformed  by 
the  spiritual  presence  of  his  Master,  made 
Peter  cry  from  the  depths  of  his  soul, 
'  Unto  you  therefore  which  believe,  he  is 
precious.'  " 

And  Job  in  his  heart  said,  "  Amen." 

Then  the  preacher  went  on,  showing  how 
that  which  endears  anything  in  this  world 
to  our  hearts  should  make  Jesus  doubly 
precious.  He  talked  of  money  —  of  the 
treasure  of  the  Sierras,  and  how  much  one 
thought  it  would  buy;  but  after  all,  how 
little  of  love  and  hope  and  faith  it  could 
bring  into  a  heart  — those  things  which 
alone  last  as  the  years  go  on. 

It  was  a  pathetic  little  story  he  told  of  a 
baby's  funeral  up  in  one  of  the  lonely,  for 
saken,  sage-bush  deserts,  where,  alone  with 
the  broken-hearted  father  amid  the  bitter 
winds  and  snows  of  a  bleak  March  morning, 
he  laid  the  only  babe  of  a  stricken  home  to 
rest  in  the  frozen  earth,  many  miles  from 
any  human  habitation;  of  how  the  father 
leaned  over  and  said,  as  the  box  vanished 
into  the  ground,  "  Sing  '  God  be  with  you 
till  we  meet  again,' "  and  how,  as  they  sang 
it,  out  against  the  winter  storm  the  light  of 
heaven  came  into  that  man's  face.  "  Tell 
me,"  the  minister  asked,  as  he  leaned  over 
the  pulpit,  "  how  much  gold  could  buy  the 
comfort  afforded  by  that  hymn  and  that 
hope?"  And  Job,  thinking  of  the  thousands 
he  had  handled  at  the  Yellow  Jacket,  felt 
that  that  hymn  was  worth  it  all. 


50 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


Then  the  preacher  talked  of  diamonds  and 
of  the  preciousness  of  Jesus;  of  the  trinkets 
hid  away  in  many  an  old  trunk,  precious  be 
cause  of  memories  that  clustered  around 
them;  and  Job  thought  of  his  mother's  Test 
ament.  He  said  the  life-memories  that  clus 
ter  around  Jesus  are  more  precious  than  any 
other;  and  Job  said  "  Amen "  to  that.  At 
last  he  talked  of  friends  and  how  they  are 
worth  more  than  gold  or  diamonds  or  relics 
of  the  past;  and  Job  thought  of  Aunty  Per 
kins  —  why.  there  she  was  across  the  aisle, 
as  intent  as  he;  the  sight  of  her  face  cheered 
him.  Then  he  thought  of  Jane  — where  was 
she?  Job  looked  furtively  about,  but.  could 
not  see  her.  A  little  unrest  filled  his  soul. 

"  No  gold  can  buy  so  much  pleasure  for 
your  poor  heart,  no  diamond  is  rarer,  no 
relic  brings  back  sweeter  memories,  no 
friend  sticks  closer,  than  Jesus.  The  flood 
of  time  may  sweep  friends  beyond  your 
reach,  the  mighty  Sierras  may  crumble  to 
dust,  old  earth  may  sink  into  space,  and  you 
be  alone  with  the  stars  and  eternity,  but  it 
is  written,  '  I  will  not  leave  thee  nor  forsake 
thee.'  Jesus  will  be  with  you  for  time  and 
eternity.  '  Unto  you  therefore  which  be 
lieve,  he  is  precious.' " 

Job  heard  Tony  shout,  "  Hallelujah!  Bress 
de  Lawd!"  and  came  very  near  following  his 
example. 

"  He's  the  Lily  of  the  valley, 

The  Bright  and  Morning  Star," 

rang  out  through  the  church,  and  voice  after 
voice  took  it  up: 

"  In   sorrow   He's  my  comfort, 
In  trouble  He's  my  stay," 

and  when  it  came  to  that  place  —  he  could 
not  help  it  —  Job  did  murmur  "  Amen." 

For  a  moment  an  overwhelming  wave  of 
emotion  passed  over  his  soul,  then  he  found 
the  congregation  rising,  heard  like  a  chant 
the  words,  "  If  any  man  sin,  we  have  an  ad 
vocate  with  the  Father,"  and  the  Commu 
nion  Service  had  begun. 

Just    then    the    sun    came    in    through    a 


broken  shutter,  lighting  the  sacramental 
table  with  an  almost  supernatural  glory, 
and  Job  felt  a  mighty  love  for  the  Savior 
fill  his  heart  and  almost  unconsciously  found 
himself  singing  with  the  congregation: 

"  Holy,  holy,  holy.  Lord  God  of  hosts, 
Heaven  and  earth  are  full  of  thy  glory. 
Glory  be  to  Thee,  O  Lord,  most  high !  Amen." 

When  a  little  later  he  knelt  at  the  altar 
with  bowed  head,  as  he  heard  the  minister's 
voice  saying,  "  The  body  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  which  was  given  for  thee,"  he  re 
solved  that  from  that  hour,  health,  talent, 
manhood,  all  he  could  be  at  his  best,  should 
be  given  to  God  and  to  men. 

At  the  close  of  the  service  Job  saw  Jane 
in  the  aisle  before  him,  and  walked  to  the 
door  with  her,  talking  as  in  the  old  days. 
He  longed  to  say  more,  but  did  not.  A  thrill 
of  happiness  came  into  Jane's  heart.  Per 
haps  he  did  care  for  her  after  all,  she 
thought. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE    STRIKE. 

'ARSE  JOB,  dar's  a  gemman  wid 
a  mighty  fine  boss  wants  to  hab 
de  pleasure  ob  seeing  de  young 
marse,"  said  Tony,  poking  his  head  inside 
the  door  on  the  Friday  afternoon  after  Job 
came  home. 

The  young  man  grasped  his  cap  and  hur 
ried  to  the  gate,  finding  there,  to  his  surprise 
and  consternation,  the  superintendent  of  the 
Yellow  Jacket  Mine  sitting  in  his  buggy.  At 
sight  of  Job,  he  sprang  out,  extended  his 
gloved  hand  to  the  lad,  and  proceeded  to 
surprise  him  still  more  by  saying  that  he 
had  come  after  him,  as  they  wanted  him 
back;  he  felt  sure  he  now  knew  who  had 
taken  the  money,  though  he  could  not  arrest 
the  person;  he  was  very  sorry  he  had  so 
greatly  wronged  Job;  would  raise  his  salary. 

Job  was  greatly  astonished.  He  expressed 
his  thanks,  but  finally  managed  to  stammer 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF   JOB. 


51 


out  that  he  really  had  had  all  he  cared  for 
of  mining  life,  and  did  not  want  to  leave 
the  old  ranch. 

Then  the  man  took  his  arm,  and  as  they 
walked  up  and  down  together,  he  told  Job 
there  was  trouble  brewing  at  the  mine;  the 
men  were  reading  all  the  news  they  could 
get  about  the  great  mining  strike  East,  and  a 
whole  crowd  stood  in  front  of  the  store  each 
evening  between  shifts,  listening  to  agita 
tors;  the  fellow  Dean  was  talking  strike  on 
the  sly  to  all  the  men,  and  he  was  afraid 
that  under  the  passing  excitement  the  best 
of  the  men  would  be  duped  by  worthless 
leaders.  So  he  wanted  Job  back;  Job  knew 
the  men,  they  liked  him,  they  would  hear 
him;  the  company  needed  him.  it  must  have 
him  at  any  salary. 

So  Job  went  back  to  the  Yellow  Jacket 
with  the  memory  of  that  home-coming  to 
cheer  him  in  the  dark  times  that  were  to 
follow.  When  the  next  day  the  scowling 
men  came  one  by  one  to  the  pay-window  at 
the  office,  muttering  about  starvation  wages, 
they  looked  surprised  to  see  Job  there.  Some 
reached  out  their  rough  hands  for  a  shake, 
and  said.  "  Shure  and  it  does  me  eyes  good 
to  see  you,  lad;"  others  only  scowled  the 
deeper;  and  one  looked  almost  p.s  if  shot, 
forgot  his  pay,  and  turned  and  walked 
away  muttering.  "  Bother  the  saint!  He's 
forever  in  my  way!" 

It  was  just  two  weeks  from  that  day  that 
the  storm  broke  at  the  Yellow  Jacket  Mine. 
A  deep  undertone  of  discontent  and  rebellion 
had  filled  the  air  during  that  time.  Job  had 
felt  it  more  plainly  than  he  had  heard  it. 
The  superintendent  had  kept  a  calm,  firm 
face,  though  Job  knew  he  was  anything  but 
calm  within. 

It  was  just  before  Job  had  gotten  ready 
on  Saturday  to  shove  up  the  pay-window 
and  begin  his  weekly  task,  that  a  group  of 
burly  men,  with  O'Donnell.  the  boss  of  the 
eight-huudred-foot  level,  as  spokesman, 
came  in  and  desired  to  see  the  superinten 
dent.  Calmly  that  gentleman  stepped  up 
and  wished  to  know  what  was  wanted. 


Well,  nothing  in  particular,  was  the  reply; 
only  they  had  a  paper  they  wished  him  to 
sign.  He  took  it  and  read  it.  It  was  a 
strange  document,  evidently  prepared  by 
O'Donnell  himself.  It  read  as  follows: 

"  The  Yellow  Jacket  Mining  Company  will 
Pay  all  meii  That  work  on  the  mine  20  pursent 
more  To-day  And  all  the  time." 

The  superintendent  folded  up  the  paper, 
and,  handing  it  back  to  the  men,  turned 
and  walked  into  the  office  without  a  word. 

"  Here,  boss!"  cried  O'Donuell,  "  yez  didn't 
plant  yer  name  on  the  paper!  Ain't  yez 
goin'  to  give  the  hands  their  dues?" 

Then  the  superintendent  turned  and  ex 
plained  to  the  men  that  he  could  not  sign 
any  such  agreement;  had  DO  authority  to; 
only  the  directors  in  San  Francisco  and  New- 
York  could  authorize  it;  that  the  mine  could 
not  afford  it;  that  the  men  had  no  complaint 
—  it  was  only  false  sympathy  with  distant 
strikes  which  caused  them  to  make  this  de 
mand;  that  he  would  not  sign  such  a  docu 
ment  if  he  could. 

The  men  left  in  a  rage.  At  the  noon  shift 
all  the  hands  came  up  from  the  mine;  not 
one  went  down.  The  machinery  stopped; 
not  a  wheel  turned,  not  even  the  pumps 
that  were  so  necessary  to  keep  the  lower 
levels  from  being  flooded.  At  one  o'clock 
the  men  began  to  come  for  their  pay,  not  one 
doing  so  in  the  morning.  Each  demanded  a 
raise  of  twenty  per  cent,  on  his  wages,  and, 
when  this  was  refused  by  Job,  threw  his 
money  back  on  the  shelf,  and  walked  out 
without  a  word. 

Hour  after  hour  it  went  on  —  a.  constant 
procession  of  determined  men  looking  into 
Job's  eyes,  and  each  face  growing  harder,  it 
seemed  to  him,  than  the  one  before.  Some 
did  not  dare  look  him  in  the  eye.  but 
mumbled  over  the  same  well-learned  speech 
which  someone  had  taught  them,  and  went 
away.  They  were  the  ones  Job  had  be 
friended  In  distress. 

Dan  came  in  with  head  high  in  air,  and 
talked  as  if  he  had  never  seen  Job;  he  de- 


52 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


manded  justice  for  such  hard- worked  fellows 
as  himself  and  his  father,  and  gave  a  long 
harangue  about  the  oppressed  classes,  till 
the  superintendent  interposed  and  said: 

"  Mr.  Dean,  if  you  have  any  personal 
grievance,  come  to  me  individually.  Do  not 
blockade  that  window;  take  your  money 
and  go." 

And  Dan  went  off  in  a  vhite  rage,  leaving 
the  money  behind  him. 

At  six  o'clock  Job  put  on  his  coat  and  cap, 
and  followed  the  superintendent  and  cashier 
to  the  door.  There  they  found  armed  sen 
tinels  pacing  all  about  the  sroue  office  build 
ing,  and  O'Donnell  and  his  crowd  waiting. 
They  would  be  obliged,  they  were  sorry  to 
say,  to  inform  them  that  the  men  had  de 
cided  the  "  boss  and  his  crew  "  should  not 
go  home  till  the  "  twenty  per  cent."  was 
paid;  that  some  food  from  the  men's  board 
ing-house  would  be  sent  them,  and  they 
would  have  to  stay  in  the  office  till  they 
came  to  terms. 

There  was  no  alternative.  They  were  en 
trapped,  and  there  was  no  escape.  Grim 
faces  looked  at  them  from  all  sides. 

Back  into  the  office  they  turned  and  locked 
the  doors,  to  open  them  only  when  a  huge 
quantity  of  poor  food  that  looked  like  the 
remains  of  the  miners'  dinner,  was  handed 
in.  Again  they  swung  the  iron  doors  to, 
barred  them,  and  sat  down  for  the  night, 
with  the  unpleasant  fact  staring  them  in  the 
face  that  they  were  besieged  and  helpless. 
Apparently  they  had  not  a  friend  in  all  the 
crowd  that  surged  to  and  fro  in  the  narrow 
streets.  There  was  no  way  of  letting  the 
outside  world  know  their  plight. 

What  a  night  that  was!  At  first  the  sound 
of  excited  voices  and  the  distant  harangues 
of  saloon-steps  orators,  then  all  quieted 
down;  there  was  not  even  the  hum  of  the 
machinery  —  only  the  dull  tramp  of  the 
guards  without,  and  the  far-away  call, 
"  Twelve  o'clock  and  all's  well,"  which  told 
they  had  a  picket  line  on  the  outer  edge  of 
the  town. 

Job  at  last  fell  asleep  in  a  heap  on  the 


floor,  with  other  sleeping  forms  about  him. 
He  dreamed  of  home  and  Jane,  heard  Tony 
shout  "  Bress  de  Lawd!"  and  awoke  to  find 
himself  aching  in  every  bone  from  the  hard 
floor.  The  light  had  gone  out.  Outside  all 
he  could  hear  was  tramp,  tramp,  tramp. 
Then  he  heard  voices.  They  came  nearer. 
He  crept  to  the  key-hole  and  listened. 

"  Let's  burn  the  thing  and  kill  'em,  and 
rut?  the  mine  ourselves!"  said  one  voice. 

"  Yer  blockhead,  don't  yer  know  it's 
stone?"  drawled  another.  "No,  gentlemen, 
we'll  fix  'em  if  they  don't  give  us  our  dues 
to-morrow!  We'll  starve  'em  out,  and  yer 
bet  they'll  sign  mighty  quick!  We  don't 
want  their  lives;  we  want  justice,  and  —  " 

The  voice  died  away  in  the  distance.  Job 
was  sure  it  was  Dan's. 

Sunday  came  and  went  with  no  end  of  the 
siege.  It  was  a  long  day  in  the  office.  The 
superintendent  pored  over  the  books,  and 
pretended  to  forget  he  was  a  prisoner.  They 
took  down  only  the  topmost  shutters. 
Some  of  the  clerks  got  out  a  pack  of  cards, 
and  asked  Job  to  take  a  hand.  One  said  con 
temptuously,  "  Oh,  you're  a  goody  -  goody, 
parson!"  when  he  refused,  but  the  others 
quickly  silenced  him  in  a  way  that  showed 
their  respect  for  Job.  The  cards  dropped 
from  their  hands  before  long,  and  each 
seemed  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts. 
Twice  during  the  day  "  the  gang "  and 
O'Donnell  presented  themselves  at  the  door 
with  the  paper,  and  were  refused.  Then  all 
hands  seemed  to  resign  themselves  to  a  gen 
uine  siege.  On  the  whole  it  was  quiet  out 
side,  except  for  the  occasional  jangle  of 
voices  and  the  sentry's  pacing. 

Towards  night  the  uproar  grew  louder. 
The  saloons  were  doing  a  big  business,  and 
the  sound  of  rollicking  sougs  and  drunken 
brawls  was  in  the  air.  Job  grew  restless 
and  paced  the  office  floor.  About  five  o'clock 
a  delegation  came  for  someone  to  meet  the 
men  at  a  conference  on  the  waste-heap  back 
of  the  quartz  mill.  The  superintendent  re 
fused  to  go,  and  asked  Job  to  do  so.  "  They 
dare  not  hurt  you,"  he  said. 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF   JOB. 


53 


So  between  two  armed,  burly  guards,  Job 
went  to  look  Into  the  face  of  the  strangest 
audience  he  had  ever  seen.  A  solid  throng 
they  stood  on  the  bare,  flat  hill  that  rounded 
oft'  at  one  end  of  the  canon  below.  Irishmen, 
Swedes,  Portuguese,  Germans,  Chinese, 
Yankees  —  all  nationalities  were  there,  in 
overalls  and  blue  jumpers,  puffing  at  long 
pipes,  and  wedged  in  a  solid  mass  about  an 
old  ore  car  that  served  as  platform.  Dan 
was  speaking;  he  was  talking  of  the  starv 
ing  miners  in  "  Colorady,"  and  pointed  to 
the  office  building,  crying,  "  We'll  show 
them  bloated  'ristocrats  how  nice  it  feels  to 
starve!"  while  a  din  of  voices  cried,  "  Hear! 
hear!" 

Pushing  their  way  to  the  flat-car,  his  mus 
cular  escorts  hauled  Job  up  and  shouted: 

"  The  parson,  lads  —  Mr.  Job.  He's  goin' 
to  talk  wid  yez!" 

"May  the  Holy  Mother  defind  him!"  cried 
a  voice  in  the  crowd.  "  He's  the  praist  of 
me  Tim!" 

"The  fraud!"  cried  another;  "he's  as  bad 
as  the  rist!  Nary  a  per  cint.  would  he  give 
me  yesterday!" 

"  Hush,  ye  blatherskite!"  hissed  another. 
"Give  the  lad  a  chance;  he's  a-talkin'!" 

Yes,  Job  was  talking.  He  did  his  best.  He 
expressed  the  utmost  sympathy  with  the 
wrongs  of  every  man,  and  reminded  them 
that  they  had  no  truer  friend  in  the  Yellow 
Jacket  than  he.  He  had  nursed  their  sick, 
buried  their  dead,  had  been  one  of  them  in 
all  the  struggles  of  their  lives.  Voice  after 
voice  in  the  crowd  said,  "  That's  so!  Hear! 
Hear!"  "  Hurrah  fer  the  lad!"  cried  an 
other.  "Three  cheers  for  the  little  parson!" 

Then  he  talked  to  them  of  the  strike,  and 
said  every  man  had  a  right  to  quit  work  and 
the  Union  to  strike,  but  no  man  or  Union 
had  the  right  to  starve  their  fellow-beings; 
he  spoke  of  the  unreasonableness  of  this 
strike  —  the  company  here  was  not  to  blame 
for  the  troubles  in  Colorado;  he  reminded 
them  that  the  times  were  hard  and  the  cities 
crowded  with  idle  men,  yet  the  company  had 
kept  them  busy  and  given  them  full  wages; 


he  urged  them,  if  they  must  demand  more, 
to  go  on  with  work  and  send  a  committee 
to  present  their  claims  to  the  directors. 

Cheers  and  hisses  grew  louder  and  louder 
as  he  spoke.  The  storm  grew  fiercer  and 
fiercer.  Job  saw  it  was  of  no  use.  A  dozen 
voices  were  yelling,  "  On  with  the  strike! 
Starve  'em  out!"  Someone  —  could  it  be 
Dan?  —  shouted: 

"Hang  the  hypocrite! —  coming  here  ad 
vising  his  betters!  String  him  up!" 

A  loud  hubbub  followed.  Job  breathed  a 
deep,  silent  prayer  and  stood  firm.  A 
tall,  brawny  man  clambered  up  beside  him 
and  cried,  as  he  brandished  a  pistol: 

"  Death  to  any  mon  that  touches  the  kid! 
May  all  the  saints  keep  him!" 

Tim's  father  meant  business.  And  through 
the  angry  mob  he  steered  Job  back  to  the 
office  in  safety. 

When  the  supper  was  handed  in  at  s*ix,  the 
men  who  brought  it  said  that  would  be  the 
last  food  till  they  signed  the  paper;  the 
miners  had  voted  to  starve  them  out. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
THE    RACE    WITH    DEATH. 

•  *  ~T"OB,  you'll  have  to  go.    No  one  knows 
.  I      this  country  as  you  do,  and  no  one 

can  do  it  but  you." 

It  was  the  superintendent  speaking.  Hud 
dled  in  a  group  the  little  company  sat  in  the 
dark,  looking  death  in  the  face.  Surrender, 
death,  or  outside  help,  were  the  only  alter 
natives.  They  could  keep  from  starvation 
for  a  day  more  on  the  provisions  they  had. 
Someone  must  go  through  the  lines  and  get 
help.  They  had  decided  that  it  was  useless 
to  call  on  the  shei'iff,  for  he  could  never 
raise  a  posse  large  enough  to  cope  with  this 
mob,  now  armed  and  well  prepared.  Troop 
A  was  on  duty  near  Wawona,  guarding  the 
Yosemite  Reservation.  Someone  must  go  and 
notify  them,  and  telegraph  to  the  Secretary 
of  War  and  get  orders  for  them  to  come  to 


54 


THE    TBAXSFOEMAT10N    OF    JOB. 


the  relief  of  the  besieged  men.  It  was  a 
dangerous  undertaking.  Even  if  one  could 
pass  through  the  line  around  the  office, 
would  he  ever  be  able  to  get  through  the 
streets  alive?  And  then  would  he  ever  get 
past  the  outer  picket? 

Someone  must  take  the  risk.  Someone 
must  go,  and  perhaps  die  for  the  others. 
One  of  the  clerks  said  he  guessed  Job  was 
the  best  prepared.  The  superintendent 
urged  him  to  go.  Finally  rising.  Job  said  he 
knew  both  the  way  and  the  peril  it  meant, 
and  he  would  make  the  attempt. 

Not  even  to  them  did  he  tell  the  route  he 
would  take  and  the  dangers  he  knew  he 
must  face.  He  had  a  plan,  and  if  it  suc 
ceeded  there  was  hope;  if  it  failed,  there  was 
no  getting  back.  One  silent  prayer  in  the 
corner,  and  he  crept  softly  and  hastily 
through  the  half-open  door,  as  the  sentinel 
went  down  towards  the  other  end  of  his 
beat. 

There  Job  lay  flat  on  the  ground  and 
waited  to  see  who  it  was.  In  the  dim  twi 
light  he  descried,  as  the  sentinel  turned,  no 
other  than  Tim's  father.  Job  stole  up  to 
him,  caught  him  before  he  cried  "  Halt!" 
and  said: 

"  For  Tim's  sake,  Mr.  Rooney,  let  me 
through  the  lines.  We  will  starve  in 
there!" 

"Job,  me  boy,  is  that  ye!"  whispered  the 
guard.  "  Hiven  bless  ye!  I  wish  I  could  let 
yez  t'rough,  but  by  the  saints  I  can't!  I've 
sworn  that  I  wouldn't  let  a  soul  pass,  and 
they  said  if  a  mon  wint  t'rough  the  line 
and  me  here,  they'd  finish  me!" 

Job  pleaded,  and  the  tears  streamed  from 
Pat  Rooney's  eyes,  but  he  was  firm;  he  had 
given  his  word,  and  he  could  not  break  it. 
But  after  what  seemed  to  Job  a  long  time, 
Pat  said: 

"  Job,  if  ye'll  promise  me  no  mon  but  the 
one  ye  go  to  see  shall  see  yez.  and  that  ye'll 
come  back  to-morrow  night  and  be  here  if 
the  soldier  boys  come,  so  no  one  will  know 
I  let  yez  t'rough,  I'll  let  yez  go;  and  Job,  I'll 
be  at  the  ind  of  Sullivan's  alley  and  pass 


yez;  and  then  the  next  shift  I'll  be  here, 
and  ye'll  get  in  safe." 

Job  promised.  Many  times  afterward  he 
wished  he  had  not;  but  he  made  up  his  mind, 
as  he  slunk  through,  with  Pat's  "  Hiven  bliss 
ye!"  following  him.  that  only  death  should 
prevent  him  from  keeping  his  word. 

Just  back  of  the  office  was  the  abandoned 
shaft  where  he  had  gone  often  to  pray. 
Once  he  had  sounded  its  sides,  and  sus 
pected  that  it  opened  into  the  first  level. 
If  this  was  the  case,  and  he  could  get  into 
that,  and  from  that  into  the  next  lower 
level,  Job  knew  that  the  end  of  that  one 
went  clear  through  to  the  old  half-finished 
drainage-tunnel  which  ran  in  from  the  canon 
back  of  the  quartz  mill.  Once  in  the  tunnel 
he  knew  that  he  could  reach  the  canon,  then 
get  outside  the  lines  and  away. 

It  took  but  a  moment  to  drop  down  the 
old  shaft,  which  ran  down  but  a  few  hun 
dred  feet  on  a  steep  slant.  Then  rapping 
softly  on  the  wall,  he  thought  he  heard  a 
hollow  sound.  There  were  voices  above 
him.  He  kept  still  and  lay  down  close 
against  the  side  till  they  passed  on.  Then 
he  dug  a  hole,  inch  by  inch,  till  he  could 
reach  his  arm  through.  No  doubt  this  was 
the  tunnel! 

Finally,  after  what  seemed  hours  —  though 
it  was  not  even  one  —  Job  had  the  opening 
almost  large  enough  to  crawl  through.  Then 
he  struck  the  timbers  —  how  was  he  to  get 
through  now?  Well,  just  how,  he  never 
knew;  but  he  did.  He  dropped  down  to  the 
floor  of  the  level,  lit  a  little  candle  he  had 
with  him,  ran  along  to  the  big  shaft,  and 
saw  the  ladder  reaching  down  to  the  next 
level.  Then  he  bethought  himself  that  his 
light  might  be  seen,  so  he  blew  it  out.  How 
could  he  get  down  the  ladder  in  the  dark? 
One  misstep  and  —  he  shuddered  at  the 
thought.  But  he  would  dare  it. 

It  was  slow  work,  step  by  step;  but  at  last 
he  found  an  open  space  through  the  boards, 
reached  out  a  little  lower  and  felt  the  floor 
of  the  second  level,  and  stepped  off  safe. 
Along  the  wooden  rails  laid  for  the  ore-cars 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF   JOB. 


55 


he  felt  his  way,  till  he  began  to  grow  con 
fused.  He  must  have  a  light;  surely  no  one 
could  see  it.  Then  he  thought  he  again  heard 
voices.  He  stood  still.  He  could  hear  his 
heart  beat.  It  was  only  the  drip  of  water 
from  the  roof.  He  lit  the  candle  and  hur 
ried  on.  The  air  was  close  and  hot,  but  he 
never  stopped.  On  down  the  long,  dark  cav 
ern  he  made  his  way  by  the  flickering  light 
of  the  fast-dying  candle. 

At  last  he  reached  the  spot  where  he  was 
sure  the  drainage  tunnel  and  the  second 
level  met.  Again  he  dug  and  dug,  using  an 
old  pick  he  found  there.  He  tore  at  the  hard 
earth  with  his  fingers,  till  he  found  himself 
growing  drowsy  and  faint.  It  was  the  foul 
air!  He  must  get  through  the  wall  soon,  or 
perish  where  he  was.  The  candle  was  gone. 
Now  it  was  a  life-and-death  struggle.  He 
thought  of  that  night  in  the  snow  and  his 
awful  dread  of  death.  All  was  so  different 
now.  A  great  peace  filled  his  soul.  But  he 
must  not  die;  he  must  get  through;  other 
lives  were  in  his  care;  starving  men  were 
awaiting  him;  his  promise  to  Tim's  father 
must  be  kept.  At  it  he  went  again.  He  felt 
something  give  way,  felt  a  breath  of  fresh 
air  that  revived  him,  lifted  a  silent  thanks 
giving  to  God,  and  crept  through  into  the 
drainage  tunnel. 

The  pickets  on  the  banks  above  were  call 
ing,  "  Three  o'clock  and  all's  well,"  as  Job 
crept  silently  down  the  canon  and  made  for 
the  heavy  timber  of  the  mountain  opposite. 

The  bugle  had  just  sounded  "  taps "  at 
Camp  Sheridan,  on  the  flat  between  the 
South  Fork  and  the  Yosemite  Fall  road,  one 
mile  east  of  Wawona.  The  southern  hills 
had  echoed  back  its  sweet,  lingering  notes. 
The  blue-coats  had  turned  in.  The  officer 
of  the  guard  was  inspecting  the  sentries, 
when  the  guard  on  Post  Number  Four  saw 
a  haggard,  white-faced  young  fellow,  with 
hat  gone,  clothes  torn,  hands  bleeding  from 
scratches,  pull  himself  up  the  bank  of  the 
creek,  and  at  the  sentry's  "  Halt!"  look  up 
with  anxious  appeal  and  ask  for  the  captain. 


That  instinct  which  is  sometimes  quicker 
than  thought  told  the  guard  this  was  no 
ordinary  case.  In  two  minutes  the  corporal 
was  escorting  Job  to  the  headquarters  tent. 
What  a  dilapidated  object  he  was!  For 
twenty  long  hours  he  had  been  working  his 
way  over  the  rear  of  Pine  Mountain,  down 
the  steep  sides  of  the  Gulch,  up  that 
terrible  jungle  which  even  the  red  man 
avoids,  over  the  great  boulders  and  falls  of 
the  South  Fork,  and  up  the  long  miles 
through  the  primeval  wilderness  to  where 
he  knew  the  white  tents  of  Camp  Sheridan 
lay. 

The  captain  could  hardly  believe  Job's 
story.  The  officers  marveled  at  the  heroism 
of  the  boy.  But  he  told  it  all  without  con 
sciousness  of  self,  begged  them  for  God's 
sake  to  lose  no  time,  and  fell  over  limp  and 
faint  at  the  captain's  feet. 

When  he  came  to,  it  was  dawn,  the  troops 
were  in  the  saddle,  and  the  sergeant  was 
reading  this  telegram: 

"  Proceed  at  once  to  the  Yellow  Jacket  Mine 
and  quell  the  riot  and  disorder.  LAMONT." 

The  horses  were  pawing  the  ground,  the 
quartermaster  was  hurrying  to  and  fro,  the 
captain  was  buckling  on  his  saber,  and 
Job  was  lying  on  a  cot  in  the  surgeon's 
tent,  while  that  good  man  was  feeling  his 
pulse. 

Quick  as  he  could,  Job  started  up.  "Are 
they  off?"  he  cried. 

"Yes,  my  boy;  and  you  lie  still.  They'll 
settle  those  fellows  over  at  the  mine,"  was 
the  reply. 

"  But,  doctor,  I  must  go!  I  promised 
Rooney!  Let  me  go!" 

"  No,  young  man.  You're  plucky,  but 
pluck  won't  do  any  more.  A  day  or  two 
here  will  fix  you  all  right.  Your  pulse  has 
been  up  to  a  hundred  and  four.  You  can't 
stir  to-day." 

Job  was  desperate.  The  bugle  was  sound 
ing,  the  officers  were  shouting  orders. 
Through  the  door  of  the  tent  and  the  grove 
of  trees  he  could  see  troops  forming. 


56 


THE    TBANSFOEMAT1ON    OF    JOB. 


"  Send  for  the  captain,  doctor,  please,"  he 
pleaded. 

The  captain  came,  heard  Job's  story,  and 
shook  his  head. 

Job  was  half  frantic.  What  would  Pat 
Rooney  say?  He  begged  the  doctor  with 
tears  in  his  eyes.  He  beseeched  the  captain. 
At  last  they  yielded.  But  how  could  he 
cross  the  line  in  the  daytime?  They  would 
have  to  wait  till  night.  Finally  the  captain 
said  he  would  wait  and  send  Job  with  a 
scout  at  dusk,  and  follow  with  the  troops  at 
midnight. 

The  bugle  sounded  recall,  and  the  soldiers 
waited,  so  that  Job  could  keep  his  promise. 
All  that  summer  day  as  he  lay  on  the  cot, 
listening  to  the  ripple  of  the  spring,  the 
neighing  of  the  horses,  the  bugle-calls,  and 
the  coming  and  going  of  the  men,  he  thought 
of  those  comrades  shut  in  the  store  office 
without  food,  and  waiting  for  relief  which 
it  must  seem  would  never  come. 

Just  at  dusk,  mounted  behind  a  sturdy 
little  trooper,  and  well  disguised,  Job  started 
back.  They  passed  around  Wawona  by  a 
side  trail;  and,  striking  the  main  turnpike 
near  its  junction  with  the  Signal  Peak  road, 
galloped  on  in  the  dark,  fearing  no  recog 
nition,  and  well  prepared  to  meet  anyone 
who  demanded  a  halt.  The  light  was  burn- 
Ing  In  Aunty  Perkins'  window  as  they 
passed.  It  was  after  midnight  when  they 
crept  slowly  down  the  timber  on  the  other 
side  of  Rattlesnake  Gulch,  and  Job  dis 
mounted  and  stole  on  ahead. 

A  gloom  rested  on  the  Yellow  Jacket.  A 
few  lights  shone  out  of  shanty  windows  and 
in  saloons.  The  stars  seemed  to  rest  on  the 
top  of  the  smoke-stacks  which  rose  like  vast 
shadows  in  the  distance.  A  low,  far-off 
murmur  of  voices,  now  rising,  now  dying 
down,  stole  out  on  the  clear  night  air. 

Down  Job  crept,  now  on  hands  and  knees, 
to  the  foot  of  Sullivan's  alley.  He  heard  a 
step.  The  sentry  was  coming.  Job  gave  the 
call  Pat  and  he  had  agreed  upon  —  the 
sharp  bark  of  a  coyote.  Tii  an  instant  he 
saw  a  flash  and  heard  a  report,  as  a 


bullet  whizzed  past  him.  Then  he  heard 
voices : 

"  What  was  that,  Jacob?" 

"  A  leetle  hund,  I  tiuks." 

"A  hund?  You  shoot  him  not!  You  save 
bullets  for  bigger  ting.  See?" 

Oh,  where  was  Pat  Rooney!  It  was  fully 
an  hour  before  the  sentry's  pace  changed 
and  the  step  sounded  like  Pat's.  Again  Job 
barked,  and  a  hoot  like  an  owl's  replied.  It 
was  Tim's  father!  A  few  minutes,  and  Pat 
had  clasped  him  to  his  heart,  and  told  him 
the  officers  were  still  in  the  store  office; 
that  the  men  were  desperate  —  they  had 
been  drinking  heavily,  and,  he  was  afraid, 
before  another  night  would  burn  the  whole 
place.  Would  Job  go  back  into  the  mine 
and  take  his  chances? 

Of  course  Job  went.  He  slunk  up  the 
alley  into  a  hidden  passage-way  he  knew  of 
back  of  the  Last  Chance  Saloon,  and  kept  in 
between  the  buildings  till  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  office.  There,  wedged  in  be 
tween  two  old  shanties,  he  had  to  wait  two 
hours  for  Pat  to  get  on  the  office  beat. 
Oh,  what  a  long  night!  Just  ahead  were  the 
office  and  the  starving  men.  Between  them 
and  their  rescuer  a  Chinaman  stalked,  gun 
in  hand,  pig-tail  bobbing  in  the  night  air, 
and  eyes  ever  on  the  alert  to  see  an  in 
truder.  In  the  bar-room  Job  could  hear 
the  talking.  Dan  Dean  and  O'Donnell  were 
there.  They  were  boasting  that  not  a  soul 
outside  knew  of  the  strike;  that  a  late  tele 
phone  to  Gold  City  showed  no  one  there 
knew;  that  the  stage  was  still  held  at  the 
stables;  that  there  was  no  hope  for  "the 
boss  and  the  tyrants."  To-morrow  they 
would  sign  that  paper  or  take  the  conse 
quences. 

Job  shuddered  at  the  thought.  Then  he 
heard  Dan  chuckle  over  him.  He  "  'lowed 
the  biggest  fun  would  be  to  see  that  pious 
fraud  beg  for  mercy." 

What  if  Dan  knew  he  was  listening,  with 
only  a  board  partition  between  them!  Job 
hardly  dared  to  breathe. 

It  was  getting  uncomfortably  near  dawn 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF   JOB. 


57 


when  Job  heard  another  owl's  hoot  and 
stole  past  Pat  Rooney  up  to  the  rear  door 
of  the  old  stone  office,  which  opened  softly 
in  a  few  minutes  as  he  gave  the  well-known 
private  tap  of  the  clerks.  What  a  wretched, 
haggard  lot  of  men  rose  excitedly  to  meet 
him!  He  hushed  them  to  silence,  told  his 
story,  and  bade  them  rest  and  wait  a  few 
hours.  Troop  A  would  surely  be  here. 

It  was  daybreak,  the  dawn  of  the  Fourth 
of  July,  when  the  sound  of  a  bugle  aroused 
the  miners  of  the  Yellow  Jacket.  Some 
thought  it  was  some  patriotic  Yankee,  but 
the  clang,  clang,  of  the  old  bell  at  the  stone 
tower,  the  calls  of  the  sentries,  the  rush  of 
hundreds  of  half-dressed,  excited  men  down 
the  street,  told  everyone  that  trouble  was  in 
the  air. 

It  was  all  done  so  quickly  that  the  miners 
hardly  knew  where  they  were.  The  guards 
were  on  the  run,  and  a  troop  of  cavalry, 
with  a  solid  front,  stood  facing  the  yelling, 
yet  terrified,  mob  of  men  who  blockaded 
lower  Main  street.  It  was  only  a  hundred 
against  five  hundred  men;  but  it  was  order, 
discipline,  authority,  against  disorder,  tu 
mult  and  a  mob.  All  rules  were  forgotten, 
all  their  plans  went  for  naught.  Dan  yelled 
in  vain.  O'Donnell  grew  red  in  the  face  as 
he  screamed  orders.  "  Forward,  march!'' 
rang  out  the  captain's  voice,  and  a  hundred 
sabers  rattled  and  a  hundred  horses  started, 
and  five  hundred  terror-stricken  men,  each 
forgetful  of  all  but  himself,  started  in  a 
panic  to  retreat. 

From  the  open  door  of  the  office,  deserted 
at  the  first  alarm  by  the  guards,  the  im 
prisoned  officers  of  the  company  saw  the 
mob  come  surging  up  the  street. 

Before  noon  the  Yellow  Jacket  was  a  mili 
tary  camp.  The  miners  were  the  prisoners, 
disarmed,  a  helpless  crowd,  the  larger  part 
already  ashamed  of  having  been  influ 
enced  by  such  a  man  as  O'Donnell,,  Before 
nightfall  the  men  had  personally  signed 
an  agreement  to  go  to  work  on  the  mor 
row  at  the  old  terms,  and  were  allowed 


to  depart  to  their  homes.  The  saloons  were 
emptied  of  their  liquors  and  closed  until 
military  law  should  be  relaxed,  and  the  ring 
leaders  were  on  their  way  to  the  county  jail 
at  Gold  City. 

The  strike  was  over  without  bloodshed, 
and  when  the  men  came  to  their  sober 
senses,  went  back  to  their  tasks,  and  saw 
the  folly  of  it  all  —  saw  how  they  had  been 
duped  by  demagogues  —  they  were  grateful 
that  somebody  had  dared  to  end  the  strike, 
and  Job  was  the  hero  of  the  hour.  The  re 
action  that  sweeps  over  mob-mind  swept 
him  back  into  his  place  as  the  idol  of  their 
hearts. 

We  have  said  the  leaders  of  the  strike 
were  taken  to  Gold  City.  No,  not  all.  One 
lay  crippled  and  fever  -  stricken  in  Pat 
Rooney's  shanty  back  of  Finnegan's.  Pat 
had  found  him  when  the  mob  rushed  back, 
borne  down  by  the  men  he  was  trying  to 
stop,  and  trampled  on  by  some  of  the  caval 
cade  of  horsemen  as  they  swept  up  the 
street. 

Hurried  hither  by  Pat,  Job  entered  the  fa 
miliar  hut  to  find  himself  face  to  face  with 
Dan.  All  that  long  day  he  sat  by  the  side 
of  the  delirious  patient.  The  soldiers,  when 
arresting  the  men,  let  Pat  stay  at  Job's 
plea.  The  troop  surgeon  came  and  ordered 
Job  away.  "  Sick  enough  yourself,  without 
nursing  this  mischief-maker  who's  the  cause 
of  all  this  bad  business,"  said  he. 

But  no;  Job  would  not  go.  Dan  was  bad. 
Dan  was  his  enemy,  but  "  Love  your  ene 
mies,  bless  them  that  curse  you,  pray  for 
them  which  despitefully  use  you,"  to  Job 
meant  watching  by  Dan  Dean  when  his 
own  head  was  aching  and  the  fever  was 
even  then  creeping  upon  him. 

All  night  he  sat  there,  bathing  the  head 
that  tossed  restlessly  to  and  fro.  He  heard 
the  delirious  lad  mutter,  "  Curse  the  pious 
crank!  He'll  get  Jane  yet!"  then  half  rise, 
and  say  with  a  strange  look  in  his  eyes. 
"  Stand  fast,  boys!  Stand,  ye  cowards!  It's 
justice  we  want!"  and  fall  back  exhausted. 
Yes,  it  was  Job  who  stood  by,  praying  with 


58 


THE    TRAXSFOEMAT1ON   OF    JOB. 


all  his  heart,  as  at  daylight  the  doctor  did 
what  seemed  inevitable  if  Dan's  life  was  to 
be  saved  —  amputated  the  crushed,  broken 
right  leg.  Never  again  would  he  roam  over 
the  Sierras  as  he  had  when  a  boy.  For  the 
sins  of  those  awful  days  Dan  was  giving 
part  of  his  very  life. 

Once  he  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  Job, 
and  as  he  caught  the  meaning  of  it  all,  a 
queer  look  came  over  his  face.  Finally  he 
muttered: 

"Job,  go  away  from  me!  I  don't  deserve 
a  thing  from  you!  I  can  stand  the  pain  bet 
ter  than  seein'  you  fixin'  me!"  and  a  hot 
tear  stole  down  the  blanched,  hardened  face. 

But  still  Job  stayed,  as  the  delirium  came 
back  and  the  fever  fought  with  the  doctor 
for  the  mastery.  Only  when  the  danger  line 
seemed  past,  and  the  noon  bell  was  striking, 
Job  passed  out  of  the  old  shanty,  up  the 
street  by  the  crowds  of  men  going  to  the 
noon  shift,  heard  the  roar  of  the  machinery, 
staggered  in  at  the  office  door  and  fell  across 
the  hard  floor. 

They  were  harvesting  the  August  hay  on 
the  Pine  Tree  Ranch  before  Job  left  his  in 
valid  chair  on  the  rose-covered  porch  and 
mounted  Bess  for  a  dash  down  to  the  mill 
with  some  of  his  old-time  vigor. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  DRIFTING." 

SHE  stood  in  the  cabin  door,  where  the 
morning  sunlight  stole  through  the 
branches  and  vines  and  played  around 
her  head.  Against  the  well-worn  post  of 
this  plain,  unpainted  old  hut  she  leaned  with 
a  far-away  look  in  her  eyes.  Nineteen  years 
ago  to-day  she  was  born  here  where  the  hills 
shut  in  Blackberry  Valley  and  the  trees 
roofed  it  over.  From  the  stream  yonder  she 
had  learned  the  ripple  of  childhood's 
laughter;  up  yonder  well-worn  trail  she  had 
climbed  these  long  years,  away  to  the  great 
outside  world  —  to  the  Frost  Creek  school 


and  the  Gold  City  church.  It  was  over  the 
same  trail  that,  wearing  shoes  for  almost 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  and  attired  in  a 
black  calico  dress  and  a  black  straw  hat 
which  the  neighbors  had  brought  her,  Jane 
had  taken  her  father's  rough  hand,  long 
years  ago,  one  summer  day,  and  followed 
her  mother  to  the  grave.  Ten  years  she  had 
done  a  woman's  work  to  try  and  keep  a 
home  for  Tom  Reed. 

How  much  longer  would  it  be?  The  im 
pulses  and  longings  of  a  maiden's  heart  were 
stirring  within  her.  Father's  rough,  good-na 
tured  kindness  still  cheered  her  lonely  life, 
but  the  morning  sun  would  kiss  two  graves 
in  God's  Acre  yonder  some  day  instead  of 
one.  The  father's  step  was  feeble  and  the 
years  were  going  fast,  and  she  would  be 
alone.  Alone?  Ah,  no,  not  alone,  for  the 
loving  Christ  was  hers.  Ever  since  the  old 
Coyote  Valley  camp-meetiug  a  new  friend 
ship,  a  new  happiness,  had  come  into  her 
life.  No  one  who  knew  her  could  doubt  it. 
It  had  added  to  the  natural  frankness  of  her 
modest,  unsophisticated  nature  a  staunch 
ness  of  character,  a  womanliness,  and  a  no 
bility  of  soul  that  gave  her  the  admiration 
and  respect  of  all  true  hearts.  Yet  how  few 
knew  her!  Like  earth's  rarest  flowers,  Jane 
Reed's  life  blossomed  in  this  hidden  dell 
unknown  to  the  great  world.  She  had  the 
love  of  Christ  in  her  soul,  and  yet  she 
longed,  she  knew  not  why,  for  some  strong 
human  love  to  fill  to  its  completeness  the 
fullness  of  her  heart. 

So  she  stood  that  morning  dreaming  of 
love  —  the  old,  old  dream  of  life.  And  who 
should  it  be?  One  of  two.  of  course.  No 
others  had  ever  come  close  enough  to  pay 
court  at  the  portal  of  her  soul.  Job  or  Dan 
—  Dan  or  Job?  Sooner  or  later  her  life  must 
be  linked  with  one  or  the  other.  Dan  cared 
for  her.  How  often  he  had  said  it!  — almost 
till  it  seemed  commonplace.  But  she  had 
never  said  yes;  yet  somehow  she  enjoyed 
the  thought  that  somebody  cared  for  her, 
even  if  it  was  poor  Dan.  She  was  at  his 
bedside  yesterday,  down  in  the  long,  low 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF   JOB. 


59 


house  at  the  end  of  Dean's  Lane,  where  they 
had  brought  him  home  from  the  Yellow 
Jacket  She  had  heard  of  it  all  at  once  — 
that  Job  was  dangerously  sick  at  the  ranch, 
and  Dan  was  crippled  for  life  at  the  lane. 
She  wanted  to  go  to  Job.  Her  eyes  filled 
as  they  told  her  of  nis  heroism.  What  a 
brave  fellow!  She  brushed  away  the  dust 
from  the  secret  shrine  in  her  heart  and 
worshiped  him  anew. 

She  wanted  to  go  to  him.  But  what  would 
he  say?  How  forward,  how  unwomanly  it 
would  seem!  Did  he  ever  think  of  her? 
Ah!  sometimes  she  thought  so!  But  he 
was  beyond  her  now;  she  could  not  go  to 
him.  But  Dan  would  expect  it.  Poor  Dan! 
He  needed  somebody  to  say  a  kind  word.  So 
she  had  gone.  She  had  bathed  his  aching 
head;  she  had  told  him  she  was  praying 
for  him;  she  had  left  with  him  the  blossoms 
picked  at  her  door. 

Dan  or  Job—  which  should  it  be?  In  the 
doorway  she  stood  dreaming  till  the  sun  was 
between  the  tree-tops,  and  looked  straight 
down  the  trail.  All  day  at  her  tasks  she 
dreamed  on.  Twice  she  took  her  bonnet 
and  thought  she  would  go  to  Job;  then  she 
hung  it  away  again.  There  they  stood  at  the 
doorway  of  her  soul  —  Dan,  crippled,  help 
less,  selfish;  a  poor,  wild,  wandering  boy. 
Job,  strong,  brave,  the  soul  of  honor,  the 
manliest  of  men,  a  Christian  in  all  that 
word  means  in  a  young  man's  life  —  her 
ideal. 

There  they  stood  on  the  threshold  of  her 
heart;  and,  lingering  at  sundown  in  the  same 
old  doorway,  the  tears  filling  her  eyes,  she 
took  them  both  in  — Dan  to  pity,  comfort, 
cheer;  Job  to  honor  and  to  love.  Job  was 
hers;  perhaps  he  would  never  know  it,  but 
that  day  she  gave  him  the  best  a  woman 
has  —  her  first  love. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


ACROSS    THE    MONTHS. 


r  I  ^  HE  next  two  years  came  and  went  in 

Grizzly  county  without  any  events  to 

be  chronicled   in   the  city   press  —  no 

strikes  or  rich  finds  or  stirring  deeds;  yet 

they  were  years  that  counted  much  in  some 

lives. 

Job  went  back  to  the  mines,  no  longer 
behind  the  pay  window,  but  as  assistant 
superintendent.  Never  had  so  young  a  man 
had  so  responsible  a  place  at  the  Yellow 
Jacket.  The  negotiations  and  intercourse 
with  the  outside  woi'ld,  and  the  complicated 
plans  of  a  great  company,  were  not  his  task. 
He  was  the  soul  of  the  mine.  His  it  was  to 
deal  with  the  "  hands,"  and  stand  between 
them  and  that  intangible,  soulless  thing 
men  call  a  corporation.  He  was  the  prophet 
of  the  company  and  priest  pleading  the  needs 
of  five  hundred  men  at  the  doors  of  the 
directors.  There  was  nothing  in  the  laws 
of  the  company  defining  his  position,  and 
he  could  hardly  have  defined  it  himself.  He 
only  knew  that  he  was  there  to  make  life  a 
little  brighter,  home  a  litcle  more  sacred, 
the  friction  of  business  a  little  less,  the 
higher  part  of  manhood  more  valuable,  to 
five  hundred  hard  -  working  men  of  all 
creeds  and  races  that  lived  on  the  bare 
mountain-side  about  the  Yellow  Jacket  mine. 
It  was  marvelous  the  changes  that  came. 
Personal  influence  and  social  power  told  as 
the  days  went  by.  The  saloon-keepers  felt 
it  and  grumbled,  but  the  assistant  superin 
tendent  was  too  great  a  favorite  for  them  to 
dare  say  much.  The  Sunday  work  ceased. 
Every  improvement  for  bettering  the  con 
ditions  under  which  the  men  worked  was 
put  in  —  better  air-pumps;  a  large  shaft- 
house  with  dressing-rooms  for  the  men,  to 
save  them  from  going  out  while  heated,  to 
be  exposed  to  winter's  cold;  a  hospital  for 
the  sick;  lower  prices  at  the  company's 
store;  Finnegan's  saloon  enlarged  and  fitted 
up  as  a  temperance  club-house,  with  not  a 
drop  of  liquor,  but  plenty  of  good  cheer.  More 


60 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


than  once  on  Sundays  Job  talked  to  the  men 
on  eternal  themes,  from  a  spot  where,  on  a 
never-to-be-forgotten  Sunday,  he  had  once 
faced  a  mob. 

At  last  the  company  built  a  large,  plain, 
attractive  church,  and  the  miners  insisted 
on  Job's  being  the  "  parson."  But  he  firmly 
declined  the  honor.  Yet  he  had  his  say  about 
that  church.  He  felt  a  wee  bit  of  pride 
when,  crowded  to  the  doors  with  Scandi 
navians,  Irishmen.  Mongolians,  Englishmen 
and  Americans,  with  the  Mexican  and  stal 
wart  Indian  not  left  out.  he  saw  the  preacher 
on  the  Frost  Creek  circuit  and  the  priest 
from  Gold  City  ascend  the  pulpit  to  dedi 
cate  it.  It  was  to  be  for  all  faiths  that  point 
heavenward,  all  ethics  that  teach  the  mas 
tery  of  self,  all  creeds  that  exalt  Jesus 
Christ,  all  religions  that  really  bind  back  to 
God.  The  company  had  said  it;  and  the  men 
knew  that  that  meant  Job. 

It  was  a  strange  service.  The  Catholic 
•choir  sang  "  Adeste  Fideles,"  and  they  all 
bowed  and  said  the  prayer  of  prayers.  Some 
said  "Our  Father"  and  some  "Paternoster," 
and  they  all  meant  the  same.  Job  felt  a 
strange  thrill  in  his  soul  as  all  in  the  great 
audience  joined  in  the  last  reverent  "Amen." 
Both  clergymen  spoke,  and  when  the 
preacher  named  the  Savior,  the  Catholics 
•crossed  themselves;  and  when  the  priest 
said  "  Blessed  Jesus."  the  Methodists  re 
sponded  "  Amen."  Both  men  caught  the 
spirit  of  the  hour;  bigotry,  creeds,  conven 
tionalities,  were  forgotten.  They  were 
face  to  face  with  hungry  souls;  with 
men  who  knew  little  of  theology  and 
ecclesiasticism.  but  much  of  actual  life. 
God,  sin.  manhood,  eternity,  seemed  very 
real  to  those  speakers  that  day,  and  they 
made  it  plain  to  the  tear-stained,  sin-scarred 
faces  that  looked  into  theirs.  When  at  last  it 
was  over  and  the  priest  had  said  "  Dominus 
vobiscum "  and  the  parson  said  "  amen," 
Job  slipped  out  of  the  rear  door  to  escape 
the  crowd  and  to  pray  for  the  Yellow  Jacket 
and  its  five  hundred  men,  while  a  voice 
whispered  to  his  soul,  "  Inasmuch  as  ye  did 


it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these,  ye  have 
done  it  unto  me." 

These  years  had  made  great  changes  in 
Andrew  Maiden.  Since  that  night-watch  at 
Pine  Tree  Ranch,  he  had  been  a  different 
man.  Tony  and  Hans  felt  it;  the  mill  men 
commented  on  it;  the  world  of  Gold  City 
began  to  realize  that  the  master  of  Pine 
Tree  Mountain  possessed  a  heart.  The  old 
town  had  more  public  spirit  than  for  years, 
and  everybody  knew  that  it  was  "  Judge  " 
Maiden,  inspired  by  a  life  close  to  his  own, 
who  was  back  of  all  the  improvements.  But 
not  everybody  was  pleased  with  his  influ 
ence  in  public  matters,  and  when  the  Board 
of  Supervisors  one  spring  refused  to  renew 
the  license  of  the  Monte  Carlo,  and  passed 
an  ordinance  against  gambling,  all  the  baser 
element  in  Gold  City  united  in  bitter  hatred 
against  the  one  who  they  knew  possessed 
the  political  power  that  brought  these  things 
to  pass. 

From  that  day  Grizzly  county  saw  an 
immense  struggle  for  supremacy  between 
righteousness  and  vice,  in  the  persons  of 
the  two  political  leaders,  Andrew  Maiden 
and  "  Col.  Dick."  Col.  Dick  was  the 
most  clerical-looking  man  in  the  community. 
Always  dressed  in  immaculate  white  shirt, 
long  coat  and  white  tie,  with  his  smooth 
face  and  piercing  black  eyes,  no  stranger 
would  have  dreamed,  as  he  received  his  po 
lite  bow  on  the  street,  that  this  was  the 
most  notorious  character  in  Grizzly  county, 
the  manipulator  of  its  politics,  the  proprietor 
of  its  worst  haunt,  the  most  heartless  man 
who  ever  stood  behind  a  bar  in  a  mining 
camp.  But  Richard  Lamar  — or,  as  all 
familiarly  knew  him,  Col.  Dick,  in  honor 
of  his  traditional  war  record  —  was  all 
this.  For  nearly  twenty  years  he  had  stood 
coolly  behind  that  bar  mixing  drinks  and 
planning  politics.  All  men  feared  him.  Only 
one  man  ever  refused  to  drink  with  him,  so 
far  as  is  known,  and  then  everybody  who 
could,  steered  clear  of  jury  duty  on  that 
case,  and  those  who  could  not  escape  pro 
nounced  his  death  due  to  heart-failure. 


THE    TEANSFOEMAT1ON   OF   JOB. 


61 


The  election  the  next  year  was  the  most 
hotly  contested  ever  held  in  the  county. 
Job  used  all  the  personal  influence  he  had 
in  the  Yellow  Jacket;  Andrew  Maiden  him 
self  personally  canvassed  every  house  in  the 
county  where  there  was  the  slightest  hope. 
Tony  said,  "  Bress  de  Lawd!  guess  de  old 
Marse  and  de  gray  team  done  gone  de 
rounds,  an'  ebery  dog  in  de  county  knows 
'em !" 

Dan,  poor  Dan,  limping  through  the  crowd 
on  crutches,  was  Col.  Dick's  chief  lieutenant, 
and  used  with  the  utmost  shrewdness  the 
"  cash "  which  the  saloon  interest  placed 
at  his  disposal.  He  knew  by  election  day 
the  price  of  every  salable  vote  in  the 
county.  The  night  before  election  excite 
ment  ran  high;  a  scurrilous  sheet  came  out 
with  cartoons  of  Andrew  Maiden  and 
"  Gambler  Teale's  kid."  All  the  hard  things 
that  could  be  said  were  said.  That  night, 
before  an  audience  that  filled  the  old  church 
and  hung  on  the  windows  and  packed  the 
steps,  Job  made  a  speech  which  thrilled  the 
souls  of  them  all.  He  told  his  life  story;  told 
of  what  rum  had  done  for  him  and  his.  told 
of  Yankee  Sam  and  the  scene  at  his  death, 
till  hardened  men  wiped  away  the  tears.  No 
cut-and-dried  temperance  lecture  was  his. 
He  talked  of  life  as  all  knew  it,  of  Gold  City 
and  facts  no  one  could  deny;  talked  till 
waves  of  deepest  emotion  passed  over  the 
crowd  like  the  wind  over  grain  on  the  far- 
reaching  prairies.  The  meeting  broke  up 
with  cheers  and  hisses,  and  men  went  out 
to  face  a  fight  at  the  polls  that  was  talked 
of  for  many  a  long  day  afterward. 

The  ringing  of  the  old  church  bell  at  dark 
on  election  day,  the  cheers  sounding  every 
where  up  and  down  the  streets,  the  sour, 
scowling  faces  of  Col.  Dick  and  Dan  as  they 
slunk  down  the  alley  and  in  back  of  the 
Monte  Carlo,  told  a  story  which  thrilled  the 
hearts  of  good  citizens  —  that  righteousness 
and  good  government  had  won. 

That  night,  between  midnight  and  dawn, 
Andrew  Maiden's  lumber  mill  went  up  in 
flame  and  smoke.  Who  did  it?  No  one 


knew;  no  one  doubted.  The  north  wind  was 
blowing,  and  the  mill  hands  worked  vigor 
ously,  worked  heroically  —  it  meant  bread 
and  butter  to  them  —  but  they  could  not  save 
it.  Only  great  heaps  of  ashes,  twisted  iron, 
a  lone  smoke-stack  and  great  piles  of  ruined 
machinery,  were  left  to  tell  the  story,  where 
for  many  years  the  whirl  of  industry  had 
made  music  beside  Pine  Tree  Creek. 

Yet  the  man  who  had  once  sworn  to  shoot 
his  enemy  at  sight  uttered  no  complaint 
or  showed  the  least  spirit  of  revenge.  He 
came  and  stood  in  the  night  air  and  watched 
the  flames  lick  up  the  old  mill,  stood  with 
the  ruddy  glow  lighting  up  his  furrowed 
face,  and  with  never  a  word  turned  and 
went  home. 

Dan  was  drifting  further  and  further  into 
the  downward  life;  and  yet,  strange  to  say, 
it  had  lost  its  charm  for  him.  That  night 
when  the  election  failed  and  Col.  Dick 
scored  him  for  not  doing  his  best,  he  parted 
company  with  the  Colonel  and  the  Monte 
Carlo.  More  and  more  strongly  two  pas 
sions  ruled  his  life.  One  was  love  for 
Jane  Reed;  the  love  of  a  man  conscious  of 
his  own  utter  badness  for  that  holy  life  he 
secretly  envies  and  outwardly  scorns.  The 
other  was  hatred  for  Job  Maiden,  who, 
ever  since  he  came  upon  the  stage  in  the 
long  ago,  had  stood  between  Daniel  Dean 
and  all  his  ambitions. 

So  the  world  moved  on.  the  world  of  Griz 
zly  county,  hid  away  among  the  grand  old 
mountains  and  lofty  pines  of  the  Sierras. 
Impulses  were  passing  into  deeds;  actions 
and  thoughts  were  crystallizing  into  charac 
ter  —  character  that  should  endure  when  the 
pines  had  passed  into  dust,  when  the  moun 
tains  had  tottered  beneath  the  hand  of  the 
Creator,  when  earth  itself  had  sunk  into 
endless  space  and  the  story  of  Gold  City  had 
forever  ended. 


62 


THE    TBANSFORMAT2ON   OF   JOB. 


CHAPTER     XXI. 

THE    YOSEMITE. 

ELL,  Bess,  old  girl,  we're  off  now 
for  the  jolliest  time  out!"  cried 
Job  as  hp  vaulted  into  the  sad 
dle  one  June  day,  bound  for  the  Yosemite 
Valley,  that  wonderful  spot  of  which  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson  wrote  on  the  old  hotel 
register:  "  The  only  place  I  ever  saw  that 
came  up  to  the  brag." 

Job  had  left  the  Yellow  Jacket  forever. 
The  years  were  beginning  to  tell  on  the 
strong  man  of  Pine  Tree  Mountain  and  Job 
was  needed  at  home.  So  he  had  come. 
Standing  one  night  on  Lookout  Point, 
watching  the  setting  sun  gild  the  far-off 
crown  of  El  Capitan,  he  had  resolved  that 
before  its  glow  once  more  set  on  the  mon 
arch's  brow,  he  would  mount  Bess  and  be  off 
to  see  again  the  sights  on  which  old  El 
Capitan  had  looked  down  for  innumerable 
centuries.  Perhaps  the  knowledge  that  Jane 
was  there  camping  with  her  invalid  father, 
who  fancied  that  a  summer  in  the  valley 
would  make  his  life  easier,  had  something 
to  do  with  the  decision. 

It  was  on  one  of  those  beautiful  mornings 
in  the  California  mountains  which  come  so 
often  and  yet  are  always  a  rare,  glad  sur 
prise,  that  Job,  mounted  on  Bess,  went  sing 
ing  down  through  the  pasture  gate,  down 
past  the  charred  ruins  of  the  mill,  past  the 
familiar  entrance  to  Dean's  Lane,  on  toward 
the  Frost  Creek  road  and  Wawona.  It  was 
a  very  familiar  road.  He  stopped  so  long 
to  chat  with  Aunty  Perkins,  halted  Bess  so 
long  under  the  big  live-oak  at  the  Frost 
Creek  school,  and,  leaning  on  her  neck, 
gazed  wistfully  at  the  scenes  of  many  a 
boyhood  prank,  that  it  was  late  in  the  after 
noon  when  he  passed  the  spot  fragrant  with 
memories  of  "Aunt  Eliza"  and  "Mary  Jane." 
galloped  down  the  long  hill,  raced  the  coach 
and  six  just  in  from  Raymond  with  a  lot  of 
tourists  up  to  the  Wawona  Hotel,  sprang  off 
Bess,  turned  her  over  to  a  hostler  and  went 
into  the  office  to  register  for  the  night. 


That  load  of  tourists  furnished  ample 
amusement  for  Job  all  that  summer  evening. 
He  had  read  of  such  people,  but  this  was  the 
first  time  he  had  ever  met  them.  There  was 
the  fat  man,  jovial  and  happy,  always 
cracking  a  joke,  who  shook  the  dust  off 
what  had  been  that  morning,  before  he  be 
gan  a  ride  of  more  than  forty  miles  by  stage, 
a  respectable  coat,  and  laughed  merrily 
till  it  nearly  choked  him.  There  was  the  tall 
dude,  with  wilted  high  collar  and  monocle 
on  his  right  eye,  drawling  about  this 
"  Bloomin'  dirty  country,  don'cher  know." 
Striding  up  and  down  the  veranda  with  a 
regular  tread  that  shook  the  long  porch, 
with  clerical  coat  buttoned  up  to  the  throat, 
and  high  silk  hat  which  was  not  made  for 
stage  travel,  was  Bishop  Bowne.  His  tem 
per  seemed  unruffled  by  the  vexatious  of 
the  day  as  he  remarked,  "  Magnificent 
scenery.  Makes  me  think  of  Lake  Como, 
only  lacks  the  lake.  Regular  amphitheater 
of  mountains.  Reminds  one  of  the  Psalm 
ist's  description  of  Jerusalem."  Darting  here 
and  there,  trying  to  get  snap-shots,  were  two 
"  kodak  fiends."  two  city  girls  who  pointed 
the  thing  at  you,  bungled  over  it,  reset  it, 
pressed  the  button,  and  giggled  as  they  flew 
off.  They  fairly  bubbled  over  with  delight 
as  they  saw  Job,  and  debated  how  much  to 
offer  to  get  him  to  sit  for  a  scene  of  rustic 
simplicity  out  by  the  toll-gate. 

But  Job  was  too  busy  to  notice.  He  was 
being  systematically  interviewed  by  the  fat. 
fussy  woman  in  black  who  was  asking  him, 
"  S'pose  you've  seen  Pike's  Peak,  the  Gar 
den  of  the  Gods,  and  Colorado  Springs? 
Great  place;  we  spent  a  whole  half  day 
there.  No?  Been  to  Monterey,  of  course, 
round  the  drive?  We  did  it!  Foggy, 
couldn't  see  a  blessed  thing;  but  it's  fine; 
had  to  do  it.  What!  never  been  there?  Too 
bad.  young  man.  Oh,  there's  nothing  like 
doing  the  world.  I've  seen  Paris,  Rome,  the 
Alps,  Egypt.  Oh,  my!  I  couldn't  tell  how 
much!  Sarah  Bell,  she  knows;  she's  got  it 
down  in  her  note-book.  Dear  me!  I  must 
go  and  see  what  time  we  can  start  back  for 


THE    TBAXSFORMAT1ON    OF   JOB. 


63 


this  place  over  there  —  what  do  you  call  it? 
Some  Cemet'ry?" 

"  Yosemite,"  suggested  Job. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Yosemitry.  We  ought  to  go 
right  back  to-morrow.  We've  got  to  do 
Alaska  in  this  trip,  or  we'll  never  hear  the 
end  of  it  when  we  get  back  East.  Nothing 
like  doing  the  world,  young  man."  said  she, 
as  she  adjusted  her  bon 
net  and  eye-glasses  and 
hurried  off  to  the  office, 
where  he  heard  her  an 
hour  later  lamenting, 
"  Sarah  Bell,  we  have 
got  to  stay  a  whole 
precious  day  in  that 
Cemet'ry  before  we  can 
go  back!" 

It  was  late  when  the 
babble  of  voices  died 
away,  the  stars  kept 
watch  through  the  tall 
pines  of  Wawona,  and 
Job  fell  asleep  to  the 
piping  of  the  frogs  in  the 
pond  back  of  the  hotel 
and  the  pawing  of  horses 
in  the  long  barn  across 
the  square. 


below  that  they  seem  to  merge  into  one. 
Cut  .by  a  silvery  stream  that  winds  lazily 
amid  the  Edenic  beauty,  as  if  loath  to  be 
away,  the  valley  a  mile  wide  stretches  back 
for  nearly  six  miles,  and  then  is  lost  to  view 
as  it  wanders  around  the  jutting  peaks 
of  the  Three  Sisters  and  climbs  on  for  five 
more  miles  to  the  falls  of  the  Merced,  as 


Yosemite  Valley,  from  Inspiration  Point. 


"Inspiration    Point!" 

called  out  the  driver,  as  Job  pulled  up  Bess 
the  next  day  alongside  the  stage  as  it  stood 
on  the  summit  of  that  spot  where  the  road 
from  Wawona,  which  for  miles  has  climbed 
up  through  the  forest  past  Chinquapin  and 
many  a  stage  station,  climbs  still  higher 
through  the  rare  air  of  seven  thousand  feet, 
and  then  hurries  down  through  the  leaves  of 
the  trees,  turns  a  bend  and  emerges  in  full 
view  of  the  grand  Yosemite. 

There  it  lay  in  all  its  grandeur  —  the  un 
roofed  temple  of  God,  Nature's  great  cathe 
dral.  Three  thousand  feet  down,  level  as 
the  floor,  sunk  beneath  the  surrounding 
mountains  which  stretched  away  to  right 
and  left  in  a  gigantic  mass,  it  lay  clothed  in 
a  carpet  of  green  grass  and  trees  so  far 


they  come  tumbling  down  from  the  region 
of  perpetual  snow  to  that  of  perpetual 
beauty. 

To  the  left  is  old  El  Capitan,  three  thou 
sand  feet  high,  and  with  width  equal  to 
height  and  depth  to  width  —  a  mountain  of 
solid  rock.  Well  did  the  Bishop  lift  his  hat, 
and,  standing  in  silent  awe,  at  last  say, 
"The  judgment  throne  of  God."  Far  be 
yond  it  the  silvery  line  of  the  Yosemite 
Creek  reached  the  straight  edge  of  the  cliff 
and  shot  down  twenty-six  hundred  feet.  To 
the  right,  Bridal  Veil  Falls,  a  tiny  brooklet 
it  seemed  in  the  distance,  winding  down  a 
mountain  meadow,  looking  frightened  a 
moment  at  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  leaping  over 
into  spray,  caught  up  and  transfigured  by 


64 


THE    TBANSFORMAT10N   OF   JOB. 


the  afternoon  sun,  as  it  fell  on  the  rocks 
hundreds  of  feet  below.  Beyond  it,  Cathe 
dral  Rocks,  the  Three  Sisters  and  a  mass  of 
jutting  summits  stretching  ever  on  till  they 
were  lost  to  view.  Beyond  and  between 
them  all,  between  and  back,  El  Capitan  and 
the  Sentinel  Peak,  looming  up,  as  the  Bishop 
said,  like  "  the  sounding-board  of  the  ages." 
From  far  away  rose  the  Half  Dome,  at 
whose  feet  the  famous  little  lake  mirrors 
again  and  again  the  morning  sun  as  it  drives 
away  the  shadows  of  night  from  this  home 
of  the  sublime. 

Job  instinctively  bared  his  head  and 
found  himself  repeating.  "  Before  the  moun 
tains  were  brought  forth,  or  ever  Thou 
hadst  formed  the  earth,  from  everlasting  to 
everlasting  Thou  art  God." 

Just  then  the  silence  was  broken  by  the 
voices  in  the  stage.  "Ain't  it  pretty?"  said 
the  giggler.  "  Well,  now,  is  that  the  Cem- 
et'ry?  Do  tell!  Driver,  you're  sure  we  can 
go  back  to-day?  We've  seen  it  now!"  said 
the  fussy  woman.  The  practical  man  was 
asking  the  driver  for  minute  statistics  and 
copying  them  down  in  his  book,  the  dude  was 
yawning  and  hoping  there  would  be  a  dance 
at  the  hotel,  while  the  Bishop  got  out  and, 
walking  away  from  the  rest,  stood  and 
looked  and  looked  and  looked,  till  Job  heard 
him  intoning  in  a  voice  in  keeping  with  the 
grandeur  of  the  scene,  "  I  believe  in  God,  the 
Father  Almighty,  maker  of  heaven  and 
earth." 

Job  stayed  behind  as  the  stage  rattled 
down  the  side  of  the  mountain,  tethered 
Bess  by  a  big  cedar,  lay  in  a  grassy  nook 
and  looked  down,  down,  where  the  Merced 
abutted  the  base  of  El  Capitan  and  tumbled 
down  the  narrow  canon  that  leads  from  the 
valley  far  below  to  the  plains.  All  the 
reverence  of  his  soul,  all  that  was  noble  and 
lofty  in  him,  rose  as  he  gazed  upon  the 
scene.  The  littlenesses,  the  meannesses  of 
the  world,  were  left  far  behind.  Like  Moses 
of  old,  he  was  in  the  cleft  of  the  mountains 
and  the  glory  of  Jehovah  lay  stretched  out 
before  him. 


It  was  toward  sunset  when  he  reached  the 
floor  of  the  valley  and  walked  Bess  across 
the  three  bridges  that  span  the  branches 
of  the  Bridal  Veil  Creek,  saw  the  bow  of 
promise  in  the  misty  spray  that  seemed  to 
ever  hang  in  mid-air  against  the  cliffs,  gal 
loped  down  the  Long  Meadow,  past  the  Val 
ley  Chapel,  and  pulled  up  at  the  Sentinel 
House  for  the  night. 

That  night  the  silver  gleam  of  the  Yo- 
semite  itself  looked  in  at  his  window,  as  the 
new  moon  shone  on  its  waters  falling  from 
the  endless  heights  above,  and  the  ripple  of 
those  waters  soothed  him  to  sleep  as  they 
rolled  past  his  door,  under  the  bridge  and 
away  down  the  valley. 

In  a  most  romantic  little  spot  just  across 
the  bridge  near  the  Falls  of  the  Yosemite, 
and  where  the  icy  creek  hides  itself  in 
bushes  and  reappears  under  the  bridge, 
stood  an  abandoned  Indian  wick-i-up,  half 
hid  among  the  saplings.  Here,  throwing 
flap-jacks  into  the  air  with  a  toss  over  a 
crackling  camp-fire,  singing  merrily,  Job 
found  Jane  the  next  morning  as  he  was 
roaming  the  valley  in  the  early  hours  on 
Bess'  back.  It  was  a  genuine  surprise.  She 
was  not  expecting  him,  even  if  she  had 
dreamed  of  him  all  night.  Her  first  impulse 
was  to  express  with  childish  glee  her  real 
delight,  but  her  very  joy  made  her  reserved. 
She  restrained  herself  lest  she  should  dis 
play  her  real  feelings.  She  was  glad  to  see 
him,  of  course;  her  father  was  better,  and 
was  off  getting  wood  for  the  fire.  Were  the 
folks  all  well?  Had  he  seen  Dan  lately? 
(Which  question  cut  Job  deeper  that  he 
liked  to  acknowledge.)  Would  she  go  up  to 
Mirror  Lake  after  breakfast?  he  asked. 
Certainly,  if  father  did  not  need  her. 

So  a  little  later,  leaving  Bess  neighing 
behind  in  the  camp,  up  the  long,  dusty 
road  Jane  and  Job  rambled  on.  past  the 
pasture  and  the  Royal  Arches,  011  along  the 
river  bank,  and,  tui'ning  away  to  the  left, 
climbed  on  the  rise  of  ground  into  that  nook 
where  the  South  Dome  seems  almost  to 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


65 


meet  the  Half  Dome,  and  stood  by  the  glassy 
waters  of  Mirror  Lake.  In  that  early  hour 
before  the  ripples  had  stirred  the  surface, 
this  lakelet  at  the  foot  of  the  Half  Dome 
was  worthy  of  all  its  romantic  fame.  Nine 
times  that  morning  Job  and  Jane  saw  the 
sun  rise  over  the  rounded  peak  of  the  Half 
Dome,  as  they  followed  slowly  the  shores 
of  the  lake  from  sun-kissed  beach  to  shadow. 
Jane  went  into  ecstasies.  Was  it  not  beau 
tiful!  What  a  picture! 
The  clear-cut  rocky 
mountain,  its  low  edges 
fringed  with  trees,  its 
top  so  bare,  the  blue  sky 
and  passing  clouds,  that 
bright  spot  which  rose 
so  quickly  far  back  of 
the  topmost  turn  of  the 
Dome,  all  mirrored  at 
their  feet. 

Job's  esthetic  nature 
was  stirred  to  its  depths, 
and  he  echoed  Jane's 
adjectives.  Before  they 
reached  camp  she  had 
yielded  to  his  appeal  for 
another  walk  to-mor 
row,  perhaps  to  Glacier 
Point  and  home  by 
moonlight. 

That  night  Job  took 
his  blankets  from  the 
hotel  and  stole  over  back  of  the  Reeds' 
camp,  just  beyond  the  Indian's  "  cache  "  on 
the  gentle  slope  of  the  open  valley  where  the 
great  wall  of  Eagle  Peak  rises  four  thou 
sand  feet.  Among  a  lot  of  boulders  which 
look  for  all  the  world  like  tents  in  the  twi 
light,  there,  between  two  great  pines,  he  lay 
down  to  watch  the  moonlight  fade  from 
Glacier  Point  yonder  across  the  valley,  and 
fell  asleep  at  last  to  dream  of  the  Berkshire 
Hills,  the  winding  Connecticut,  and  the 
scenes  of  childhood  days. 

It  must  have  been  three  o'clock  —  it  was 
dark,  very  dark,  though  the  stars  were  shin 
ing  brightly  —  when  something  awoke  him. 


He  roused  to  find  himself  striking  his  nose 
on  either  side  in  a  strange  manner.  Fully 
awake,  he  discovered  the  cause.  Two  tribes 
of  ants  living  on  opposite  pine  trees  had 
completed  a  real  estate  bargain  that  night 
and  had  decided  to  change  homes.  By  some 
chance  they  found  his  face  in  their  path 
way,  but,  perfectly  fearless  of  the  giant 
sleeping  there,  had  kept  on  their  journey, 
passing  each  other  on  the  bridge  of  his  nose. 


Mirror  Lake,  Yosemite. 

As  he  woke,  the  tramp  of  myriad  feet 
crossed  that  feature,  the  procession  for  the 
right  marching  over  between  his  eyes;  the 
procession  for  the  left,  over  the  point.  Si 
lently,  boldly,  the  mighty  host  climbed  his 
cheeks,  surmounted  the  pass,  and  hurried 
down,  till,  with  many  a  desperate  slap,  Job 
at  last  sprang  up,  thoroughly  awake.  Ants, 
ants,  ants  —  millions  of  them!  Ants  in  his 
shoes,  ants  running  off  with  his  hat,  ants  in 
his  pockets.  It  was  an  hour  before  the  giant 
had  conquered  the  dwarfs  and  Job  was 
asleep  again,  well  out  of  the  way  of  any 
tree. 
The  sun  was  shining  in  his  eyes,  the  In- 


66 


THE    TBANSFOBMAT1ON    OF    JOB. 


dian's  little  black  cur  had  come  up  and  was 
barking  at  him  from  a  respectful  distance, 
and  from  behind  a  tree  Job  heard  a  girl's 
merry  laugh,  when  he  awoke  the  next 
morning. 


CHAPTER     XXII. 
GLACIER    POINT. 

MOUNTAINS,  mountains,  mountains! 
Piled  up  like  Titanic  boulders, 
snow-capped  and  -ice-bound,  tum 
bling  down  from  the  far-off  glassy  sides  of 
Mt.  Lyell  and  Mt.  Dana  to  the  edge  of  that 
stupendous  chasm.  Gleaming  glacrers,  great 
ice  rivers,  eternal  snow  drifts,  dark,  bare, 
rugged  peaks  for  a  background.  For  a  fore 
ground,  all  the  beauty  of  the  valley  far  be 
low  you,  three  thousand  feet  or  more,  as, 
holding  your  breath,  you  gaze  straight  down 
the  dizzy  height  from  the  projecting  table 
rock.  El  Capitan  on  the  left,  the  Yosemite 
Falls  dancing  down  in  three  great  leaps 
opposite;  the  Half  Dome  and  Cloud's  Rest 
off  to  the  right,  Vernal  and  Nevada  Falls 
pouring  their  torrent  over  the  cliffs  at  your 
side,  the  Hetchy-Hetchy  Valley,  the  rolling 
plateau  that  stretches  back  to  the  perpetual 
snow  and  rising  peaks  behind  you.  All 
language  falters  here.  Tongue  can  never 
describe,  only  the  soul  feels,  the  awfulness, 
the  vastness,  the  sublimity,  the  stupendous- 
ness,  the  wild  grandeur  of  the  scene.  Such 
is  Glacier  Point. 

Here,  speechless,  overawed,  and  with  the 
loftiest  emotions  sweeping  over  their  souls, 
Job  Maiden  and  Jane  Reed  stood  alone  amid 
a  silence  broken  only  by  the  sighing  of  the 
trees  back  of  them. 

It  was  toward  sunset  of  a  June  afternoon. 
For  hours  they  had  been  climbing  up  the 
long,  steep,  winding  trail  that  picks  its  way 
along  the  side  of  the  cliff  from  back  of  the 
Valley  Chapel  toward  Sentinel  Peak,  over 
the  jutting  point,  and  over  the  cliff's  edge  to 
this  wonderful  spot.  Weary  and  foot-sore, 
they  had  reached  it,  only  to  have  all  thought 


of  self  overwhelmed  and  forgotten  in  that 
vision  of  visions  which  burst  upon  their 
eyes  and  souls.  How  long  they  stood  there 
in  utter  silence  they  knew  not.  Time  was 
lost  in  eternity.  At  last  the  tears  began  to 
trickle  .down  Jane's  cheeks  and  she  sobbed, 
"It  is  grand,  it  is  too  grand!  I  have  seen 
God!  I  cannot  look  any  more!"  while  Job 
stood  entranced,  forgetful  of  Jane,  forgetful 
of  self,  utterly  absorbed  in  the  consciousness 
of  infinite  power.  Then  he  began  to  repeat 
in  a  solemn  voice  that  favorite  Psalm  of  his: 
"  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills, 
from  whence  cometh  my  help.  My  help 
cometh  from  the  Lord,  which  made  heaven 
and  earth." 

The  saucy  call  of  a  squirrel  in  a  tall  pine 
near,  the  chill  of  the  evening  air  coming 
down  from  the  ice-fields,  brought  them  at 
last  to  a  consciousness  of  themselves.  With 
drawing  to  a  sheltered  nook  away  from  the 
dizzy  cliff,  and  so  hid  among  the  trees  that 
all  view  was  shut  off  except  that  scene  of 
dazzling  beauty,  the  glitter  of  the  setting 
sun  on  the  distant  Lyell  glacier,  Job  and 
Jane  sat  down  for  the  first  real  heart-to- 
heart  talk  they  had  ever  known  in  their 
lives.  They  talked  of  the  years  gone  by; 
of  the  outward  story  that  the  world  may 
read,  of  the  inner  story  that  only  the  heart 
knows.  Their  theme  was  Christ,  their 
mutual  Friend,  who  had  been  the  cheer  and 
strength  of  all  those  years.  Memory  came 
and  turned  the  pages  of  a  lifetime  that 
night.  Jane  talked  of  childhood  days,  of  her 
mother's  grave  and  Blackberry  Valley,  and 
of  the  old  camp-meeting  in  Pete  Wilkins' 
barn  on  that  never-to-be-forgotten  Saturday 
night,  when,  lonely  and  heart-broken,  she 
had  knelt  on  the  hard  floor  at  the  bench 
and  whispered,  "  Just  as  I  am,  without  one 
plea."  Then  her  face  brightened  as  she 
looked  up  and  said,  "  Oh,  Job,  He  came, 
and  I  was  so  happy!  And,  somehow, 
home  has  not  been  so  lonely  since  then, 
and  — I  don't  know;  it  may  seem  strange  to 
you,  Job  —  Jesus  is  just  as  real  to  me  as  you 
are.  He  is  with  me  all  the  time;  and,  when 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


67 


I  am  tired,  he  says,  '  Coine  unto  rne,  and  I 

will  give  you  rest';  when  father  is  so  cross. 

and  the  tears  just  will  come,  he  whispers, 

'  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled,  neither  let 

it  be  afraid.    My  peace  I   give   unto  you.' 

And  he  does.    It  comes  so  sweetly,   and   I 

feel  so  still,  so  rested!    I  know  he  is  right 

beside    me.     Isn't    it 

grand,    Job,    to    feel 

we  are  His  and  He 

will  always  love  us, 

and    that    He    is    so 

near   us?      It   seems 

as    if    I    heard    His 

step     now     and     He 

was  standing  by  us. 

I    know    He    is.      I 

like    that    hymn    we 

sang    Communion 

Sunday— '  Fade,  fade, 

each     earthly     joy, 

Jesus  is  mine.'  " 

A  moment  they  sat 
fin  silence,  while  the 
sun  transformed  the 
far-off  glacier  into  a 
lake  of  glory,  and 
then  sank  behind  El 
Capitan  for  the 
night.  Then  Job 
spoke.  A  long  while 
he  talked.  The  mem 
ories  of  childhood; 
the  sweet  face  that 
grew  strangely 
white  in  the  city  of 
the  plains  and  left 


nel  and  the  long,  long  day  in  the  lonely 
Gulch.  The  young  man  grew  excited  and 
stood  up  as  he  paid  loving  tribute  to  the 
reality  of  religion  in  his  life  and  the  tender, 
most  divine  friendship  of  Jesus  Christ. 
Then  he  hesitated;  but  only  for  a  moment- 
He  told  h»r  of  his  sins;  of  those  days  of 
doubt  when  he 
yielded  to  the 
tempter's  power  and 
how  near  he  came  to 
losing  his  soul.  He 
could  not  finish  it, 
but  strode  off  alone. 
At  last  he  came,  and, 
sitting  down,  said: 

"Jane,  all  I  am  I 
owe  to  Jesus  Christ. 
The  story  of  his  love, 
and  what  he  has 
been  to  me,  is  more 
wonderful  than  any 
story  of  fiction. 
'  More  wonderful  it 
seems  than  all  the 
golden  fancies  of  all 
our  golden  dreams.'  " 
The  twilight  was 
deepening,  the  great 
mountains  were  fad 
ing  away  in  the  dis 
tance,  the  evening 
star  was  just  peering 
over  the  horizon  as, 
standing  together  by 
the  iron  rail  that  pro 
tects  Table  Rock  — 


him;  the  early   days 
at  Pine  Tree  Ranch; 

the  steps  of  a  downward  life;  that  grand  old 
camp-meeting  and  what  it  did  for  him  —  of 
these  he  spoke,  and  yet  did  not  cease.  The 
years  of  youth  and  young  manhood,  the  bit 
ter  persecutions  and  temptations,  the  tri 
umphs  through  the  personal  presence  and 
help  of  the  Master,  were  his  theme.  For  the 
first  time  a  human  friend  learned  the  real 
story  of  that  awful  night  in  the  second  tun- 


View  from  Glacier  Point. 


standing,    as     it 
seemed,  in  the  choir 

loft  of  the  eternities,  they  sang  together  — 
Job  in  his  rich  tenor,  Jane  in  her  sweet 
soprano: 

"  All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus'  name, 

Let  angels  prostrate  fall. 
Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem. 
And  crown  him  Lord  of  all." 

As   the    moonlight   stole   down    from   the 
mountain  summits  to  the  edge  of  the  further 


68 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


cliff  and  then  plunged  down  to  light  the 
valley,  Job  and  Jane  still  sat  and  talked. 
Was  it  strange  that  somehow  the  hidden 
love  of  long  years  would  out  that  night, 
and,  talking  of  life's  holiest  experiences 
and  secret  longings  and  loftiest  dreams, 
somehow,  before  they  knew  it,  they  talked 
of  love?  Secrets  locked  in  the  heart's  deep 
est  chambers  found  voice  that  night.  The 
unuttered  longings  of  the  years  found  lan 
guage.  Not  as  children  prattle  of  sudden 
impulses,  not  as  Job  had  blushed  and  sim 
pered  once;  but  with  the  consciousness  of 
manhood  and  womanhood,  and  divinity 
within,  they  talked  of  how  their  lives  had 
grown  together  till,  in  all  that  is  holy  and 
best,  they  were  already  one. 

At  last  they  started  down  the  trail.  It  was 
late.  The  moon  had  crossed  the  sky  dome 
of  the  valley  and  was  hastening  toward 
Eagle  Peak.  A  peace  and  silence  that  could 
be  felt  filled  the  world,  and  found  a  deep 
response  in  their  souls.  They  were  going 
down  from  the  Mount  of  Transfiguration, 
one  with  God,  one  with  each  other.  Love, 
pure  and  holy,  was  master  of  their  lives.  A 
joy  unspeakable  filled  their  hearts.  The  cul 
mination  of  the  years  had  come.  With  the 
forests  and  mountains  for  witness,  under  the 
evening  sky,  with  innumerable  worlds  look 
ing  down,  with  the  presence  of  Infinite 
Power  all  about  them.  Jane  Reed  and  Job 
Maiden  had,  once  for  all,  plighted  their  love 
to.  God  and  each  other. 


CHAPTER     XXIII. 
THE    CANON    TRAIL. 

IT   WAS  just  four  days  later,   the  day 
before  the  Fourth,   that  Job,    mounted 
on  Bess,  rode  up  to  Camp  Comfort,  as 
Jane  called  the  little  spot  where  she  kept 
house  in  the  open  air  for  her  father,  listen 
ing  to  the  roar  of  the  Yosemite  Falls  back  of 
her.  and  prepared  their  humble  meals  over 
the  camp-fire.    Job  was  going  home;  the  old 


man  would  expect  him  on  the  Fourth,  and 
that  keen  sense  of  duty  which  was  ever 
stronger  than  his  longing,  to  linger  near 
Jane,  impelled  him  to  go.  He  had  come  to 
say  good-by.  Old  Tom  Reed,  sick  and  selfish, 
had  been  blind  to  the  new  light  in  Jane's 
eyes  and  did  not  know  the  secret  which  the 
birds  and  trees  and  sky  had  learned  and 
seemed  never  to  cease  whispering  about  to 
Jane.  He  did  not  like  Job.  That  pride  of 
poverty  which  hates  success  put  a  gulf  be 
tween  him  and  this  noble  young  fellow,  who 
looked  so  manly  as  he  rode  up  on  Bess.  Tom 
Reed  liked  Dan  and  thought,  of  course,  that 
matters  were  settled  between  him  and  his 
black-eyed  daughter.  He  felt  to-day  like  tell 
ing  this  young  aristocrat  from  the  Pine  Tree 
Ranch  that  it  would  be  agreeable  to  both 
himself  and  Jane  if  he  would  seek  other 
company.  Only  physical  weakness  kept 
him  from  following  as  Jane  walked  away  by 
Job's  side  patting  Bess'  neck.  She  would  see 
him  to  the  end  of  the  valley,  she  said;  she 
did  not  mind  the  walk.  Well,  if  she  would 

—  and  what  did  Job  want  better  than  that  ? 

—  she  must  mount  Bess  and  let  him  walk. 
How  pretty  she  looked  on  Bess'  black  back, 
with  her  shining  hair  and  flashing  eyes  and 
ruddy  cheeks!    Never  had  she  looked  hand 
somer  to  Job.    Close  at  her  side  he  kept  as 
Bess  slowly  walked  down  across  the  river 
bridge,    past   the    Sentinel    House,    and    oil 
close  to  the  Bridal  Veil  Falls. 

As  the  rainbow  in  the  spray,  with  its  iri 
descent  colors,  laughed  at  them  through  the 
trees,  Job  thought  of  the  gala  day  coming, 
when  he  should  claim  this  noble  girl  for  his 
bride,  and  an  honest  pride  filled  his  heart. 
At  the  foot  of  Inspiration  Point  they  tarried 
for  a  full  hour,  it  was  so  hard  to  say 
good-by.  How  he  hated  to  take  Bess  from 
her!  At  last  a  sudden  thought  came  to  him. 
She  should  keep  Bess  in  the  valley  till  the 
autumn  days  came  and  Jane  could  return 
home.  He  would  go  back  over  the  Merced 
Canon  trail,  only  twenty-six  miles  to  his 
home;  he  had  often  wanted  to  try  it  and 
cross  the  river  on  Ward's  cable.  He  could 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


69 


not  go  that  way  on  horseback,  and  he  would 
leave  Bess.  He  would  like  to  think  of  Jane 
and  her  as  together.  The  girl  protested,  but 
she  felt  a  secret  joy.  It  would  be. next  to 
having  him.  So  she  did  not  dismount,  but 
through  her  tears  saw  Job  vanish  down  the 
canon,  along  the  Rapids,  towards  the  old, 
almost  forgotten  trail  that  leads  for  twenty 
miles  by  the  river's  roaring  torrent,  to  where 
the  South  Fork  joins  the  North  Fork. 

A  sudden  impulse  seized  her.  She  turned 
Bess'  head  toward  the  toll  road  and  began  to 
climb  the  steep  three  miles  to  Inspiration 
Point.  Then  she  hunted  for  the  Cliff  Trail 
that  leads  away  from  the  road  out  along  the 
great  left  precipice  of  the  canon.  She  knew 
there  must  be  some  opening  in  the  forest 
over  there.  She  remembered  it  from  the 
valley  below,  the  day  she  had  gone  down 
by  the  Rapids.  She  would  find  it  and 
catch  one  last  glimpse  of  Job  on  the  trail. 
She  would  wave  to  him,  and  perhaps  he 
would  see  her.  She  had  Bess,  and  it  would 
not  take  long  to  return;  father  would  not 
miss  her. 

Just  as  she  turned  into  the  trail  a  campers' 
wagon  climbed  the  hill  back  of  her  and 
passed  on  over  the  road,  but  she  did  not 
notice  it,  she  was  so  absorbed  in  her  own 
thoughts.  She  must  hurry.  Would  Job  see 
her?  Anyway  she  would  surely  see  him — 
she  would  dismount  and  creep  out  to  where 
nothing  could  hide  her  view. 

Far  below  Job  was  already  on  his  march 
homeward.  With  a  swinging  gait,  and  a  de 
termined  will  that  said  he  must  do  it, 
though  all  the  love  in  his  heart  said  no, 
Job  started  off  through  the  trees  and  on 
down  the  canon  trail.  His  eyes  were  misty 
and  a  lump  was  in  his  throat,  as  he  caught 
one  last  glimpse  of  Jane.  On  he  hurried. 
He  was  off  now,  and  the  sooner  he  got  home 
the  better.  By  rapid  walking  and  some  hard 
climbing  he  would  reach  Indian  Bill's  old 
cabin,  ten  miles  down  the  river,  by  night. 

He  had  just  resolved  on  this,  leaped  over 
a  creek  stealing  down  far  behind  El  Ca pi- 


tan,  got  full  in  sight  of  the  roaring  rapids, 
when  he  heard  a  step  behind  him  and  looked 
up  to  see  Indian  Bill  himself  coming.  The 
old  trapper  was  a  well-known  character  in 
the  mountains.  His  great  brown  feet  look 
ing  out  beneath  torn  blue  overalls,  his  dark- 
skinned  chest  wrapped  in  a  blanket  of  many 
colors,  his  long  straight  hair  falling  from 
beneath  a  well-worn  sombrero,  formed  a 
familiar  sight  all  over  those  mountains. 
Those  feet  had  tramped  every  mountain 
pass  and  rugged  trail  and  had  climbed  every 
lofty  peak  for  a  hundred  miles  about  the 
Yosemite. 

His  approach  was  a  glad  surprise  to  Job. 
He  could  wish  no  better  companion  over 
that  lonely  trail  which  led  along  the  pre 
cipitous  sides  of  the  canon,  with  straight 
walls  towering  above  it  and  steep  descents 
reaching  below  to  the  Merced's  angry 
waters,  which  dash  for  twenty  miles  over 
gigantic  boulders  with  a  fury  unrivaled  by 
Niagara  itself. 

Soon  Indian  Bill  was  driving  away  Job's 
gloom  as,  in  his  queer  dialect,  he  told  one  of 
his  trapper  stories  while  the  two  swung 
on  at  regular  gait,  close  upon  each  other's 
heels.  Over  the  steep  grades,  through  the 
deep,  shaded  ravines,  and  along  the  bare 
cliffs  on  that  narrow  trail,  they  went.  They 
had  gone  a  mile  down  the  stream,  when  Job 
noticed  something  moving,  high  on  the  oppo 
site  cliff.  He  called  his  companion's  atten 
tion  to  it,  and  the  keen-eyed  Indian  said  it 
was  a  horseman  mounted  on  a  black  steed. 
Job  thought  of  Jane,  but  at  once  said  to 
himself  that  it  could  not  be  she  — she  was 
back  at  Camp  Comfort  by  this  time.  A  lit 
tle  later,  Bill  said  the  horse  was  now  rider 
less  and  standing  by  a  tree,  and  that  a  bit 
of  something  white  was  moving  on  the  face 
of  the  cliff. 

Just  then  they  heard  a  terrible  roar,  and 
both  forgot  all  else  in  the  queer  sensation 
that  seized  them.  All  the  world  seemed  to 
sway  before  Job's  eyes.  The  mountains  be 
low,  where  the  river  bends,  seemed  a  thing 
of  life.  His  feet  slipped  on  the  narrow  edge 


70 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF   JOB. 


of  a  steep  cliff  he  was  crossing,  the  gravel 
beneath  gave  way,  and  Job  found  himself 
lying  at  the  foot  of  a  steep  incline,  while  a 
whole  fusillade  of  stones  was  flying  past 
him.  A  moment,  and  it  was  over,  and  the 
Indian  said: 

"Ugh!  Heap  big  earthquake!  Great 
Spirit  mad!  Come." 

But  Job  could  not  easily  come.  His  foot 
was  doubled  up  under  him  and  sharp  pains 
were  darting  through  it.  Indian  Bill  sprang 
to  his  assistance,  fairly  cari'ied  him  up  the 
steep  side  of  the  precipice,  from  whence,  for 
tunately  for  him,  he  had  fallen  on  soft  earth, 
and  put  him  on  his  feet  on  the  trail.  Oh, 
that  long  walk  over  the  jutting  points,  down 
among  the  boulders,  and  up  again  on  places 
of  the  trail  that  seemed  suspended  between 
earth  and  sky!  Every  step  brought  a  groan 
to  Job's  lips.  He  grew  feverish  and  thirsty. 
Bill  parted  a  bunch  of  almost  tropical  ferns 
which  grew  against  the  rocks,  and  led  Job 
in  to  a  place  where,  through  the  stone  roof 
of  a  dark  canon,  the  ice-cold  water  trickled 
down  drop  by  drop.  It  was  well  toward 
dusk  when  Job  dropped  exhausted  on  the 
trail,  and  the  hardy  Indian  slung  him  over 
his  shoulder,  bore  him  up  a  narrow  canon 
that  entered  the  main  gorge  on  the  right, 
and  laid  him  down  on  his  own  blankets  in 
the  little  wick-i-up  made  of  twisted  limbs 
and  twigs  that  he  called  home.  Soon  the 
crackling  fire  warmed  the  water,  the 
sprained  foot  was  bandaged,  and  Job  was 
asleep. 

It  was  a  strange  scene  on  which  Job 
opened  his  eyes  the  next  morning.  He  was 
lying  on  a  bed  of  cedar  boughs,  wrapped  in 
an  old  gray  blanket,  and  with  one  of  many 
colors  under  him.  A  roof  of  gray  and  green 
was  over  him,  the  forest's  foliage  woven  into 
a  tent.  Through  the  parted  branches  he 
could  see  the  brown-skinned  Indian  bending 
over  a  ruddy  fire  from  whence  the  savory 
odor  of  frying  trout  stole  in.  Through  an 
avenue  of  green  down  the  narrow  cafion,  he 
could  see  the  morning  sun  shining  on  the 


waters  of  the  Merced  which  tumbled  over 
the  great  rocks.  He  tried  to  rise,  but  a 
sharp  pain  shot  through  his  foot.  Far  away 
he  heard  the  call  of  a  bird,  and  out  by  the 
fire  the  weird  strains  of  a  monotonous  folk 
song  rose  in  the  air.  Job  closed  his  eyes 
and  sent  up  a  morning  prayer.  In  it  he 
tried  to  pray  for  Jane,  but  somehow  could 
not.  She  was  safe,  he  knew;  probably  at 
the  fire,  too,  in  the  beautiful  valley  from 
whence  those  rushing  waters  came. 

The  trout  breakfast  was  over  —  Bill  knew 
where  to  get  the  beauties,  and,  after  he  had 
got  them,  knew  how  to  cook  them  —  when 
Job  learned  from  the  old  trapper  that  he  was 
to  be  his  guest  for  a  week;  that  not  before 
then  would  he  be  able  to  continue  the  jour 
ney  home,  and  that  Bill  would  do  his  best 
to  care  for  him  till  the  sprained  foot  was 
well  again.  At  first  he  rebelled.  He  must 
get  home,  he  said;  Andrew  Maiden  was  ex 
pecting  him.  But  the  Indian  only  grunted  * 
and  sat  in  silence,  as  Job  tried  to  walk  and 
fell  back  upon  the  blankets  with  the  realiza 
tion  that  Bill  was  right. 

All  day  the  Indian  pottered  about  in  si 
lence,  fixing  his  traps  and  guns,  and  weav 
ing  a  pair  of  moccasins  for  winter's  use, 
while  Job  lay  half  asleep,  half  awake,  liv 
ing  over  again  the  glories  of  the  week  just 
closing.  Toward  evening  the  old  Indian 
came  in  and  sat  by  his  guest  and  began  to 
talk.  Far  into  the  night  hours,  while  the 
camp-fire  flashed  and  crackled  without,  he 
kept  up  his  stories,  till  Job,  intensely  inter 
ested,  forgot  his  pains  and  his  dreams.  In 
quaint  English,  shorn  of  all  unnecessary 
words.  Bill  talked  on. 

First  he  told  bear  stories,  finishing  each 
thrilling  passage  with  a  significant  "Ugh!" 
The  one  that  roused  Job  most  and  held  him 
transfixed  was  of  once  when  he  suddenly 
met,  coming  out  of  the  forest,  a  giant  grizzly, 
which  rose  on  his  monster  hind  feet  and 
advanced  for  the  death  embrace.  "  Me  fire 
gun  heap  quick,  kill  him  all  dead,  he  fall, 
hit  Bill,  arm  all  torn,  blood  come,  me  sick. 
Ugh!"  And  turning  back  his  blanket,  he 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF   JOB. 


71 


showed    Job   the    scars    from    the    grizzly's 
dying  blow. 

Then  he  told  tales  of  adventure.  Of  scal 
ing  the  Half  Dome  by  means  of  the  iron 
pegs  some  daring  climber  had  left  there,  and 
how  finally,  reaching  the  summit  and  lying 
flat,  he  peered  over  and  saw  him 
self  mirrored  in  the  lake  below. 
He  told  of  a  wild  ride  down  the 
icy  slope  of  the  Lyell  Glacier;  of 
a  night,  storm  -  bound,  in  the 
Hetchy-Hetchy,  where  he  slept 
under  the  shelter  of  a  limb 
drooping  beneath  the  snow,  with 
a  group  of  frightened  mountain 
birds  for  bedfellows.  He  told  of 
beautiful  parks  far  amid  the  soli 
tude  of  the  high  Sierras,  great 
mountain  meadows  where  shy 
deer  grazed,  of  crystal  lakes  that 
lay  embowered  in  many  a  hidden 
mountain  spot,  of  Mount  Ritter's 
grandeur  and  the  dizzy  heights 
of  Mount  Whitney,  till  Job's 
head  reeled,  and  he  fell  asleep 
that  night  dreaming  of  standing 
on  the  jagged,  topmost  summit 
of  a  lofty  peak,  with  all  the 
mountains  going  round  and 
round  below  him,  till  he  grew 
dizzy  and  fell  and  fell  — and 
found  himself  wide  awake,  lis 
tening  to  the  hoot  of  a  distant 
owl  and  the  breathing  of  his 
tawny  host  stretched  out  under 
the  sky  by  the  dying  embers  of 
the  camp-fire. 

During  the  next  two  days  Job 
was  much  alone.  Bill  came  and  went  on 
many  a  secret,  stealthy  errand  to  where  he 
knew  the  largest,  most  toothsome  mountain 
trout  had  their  home.  Busy  with  his  own 
thoughts.  Job  lay  and  dreamed  the  long 
hours  away. 

"Make  Bill  feel  bad.  Want  hear  it? 
Ugh!  Me  tell  it;  me  there.  No  brave;  little 
boy.  Bad  day,  bad  day!" 

It  was  the  fourth  day  and  Job  was  trying 


to  persuade  Bill  to  tell  him  about  the  dread 
ful  massacre  of  the  Yosemite  in  the  years 
gone  by.  The  fitful  firelight  played  about 
the  solemn  face  which  showed  never  a 
quiver  as  that  night  Bill  told  the  story 
which  made  Job's  blood  run  cold. 


Sentinel  Rock. 

It  was  in  the  long-gone  years  when  tbe 
miners  first  came  into  the  mountains.  Liv 
ing  quietly  in  the  beautiful  valley  to  which 
they  had  given  their  name,  his  tribe  dwelt. 
Wild  children  of  nature,  they  had  for  many 
a  century  had  the  fi-eedom  of  those  hills. 
Far  and  wide  on  many  a  hunting  expedition 
they  had  roamed,  and  none  had  said  nay. 
But  the  pale  -  face,  the  greedy  pale  -  face, 
came  and  stole  the  forests  and  creeks  yon- 


72 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


der.  Twice,  enraged  at  their  depredations, 
the  Indians  had  sallied  forth  from  their 
homes  and  rent  the  hills  about  Gold  City 
with  their  war-cries,  then  retreated  to  the 
mountain  fastnesses  of  which  the  pale-face 
knew  nothing.  Once  more  they  had  gone  on 
the  war-path,  and  started  back,  to  find  the 
whites  at  their  heels.  To  the  very  edge  of 
the  cliffs  they  had  been  followed,  and  their 
refuge  was  no  longer  a  secret  —  the  world 
had  heard  the  story  of  the  giant's  chasm  in 
the  Sierras. 

When  they  had  gone  up  on  the  great 
meadows  back  of  Yosemite  Falls  and  El 
Capitan  to  live,  there  came  a  great  tempta 
tion.  The  Mono  Lake  Indians,  far  over  the 
pass,  had  stolen  a  lot  of  fine  horses  from 
the  miners  of  Nevada.  They  hated  the  Mono 
Lake  Indians.  They  watched  their  chance, 
and,  while  they  were  off  on  a  great  hunting 
trip,  the  Yosemites  stole  over  the  crest  of 
the  Sierras  and  brought  a  hundred  head  of 
horses  back  with  them.  Then  the  aged 
Indian  went  on  without  a  tremor.  He  told 
how.  one  summer  day,  he  was  playing  with 
the  other  boys  around  a  great  tree,  when  he 
heard  the  wild  war-whoop  of  the  Monos; 
he  saw  them  coming  in  their  war  -  paint, 
mounted  on  mad,  rushing  horses;  heard  the 
whirr  of  arrows  about  him;  ran  and  hid  in 
a  cleft  of  the  great  rocky  cliff,  out  of  sight 
but  not  of  seeing;  saw  his  mother  scalped 
and  thrust  back  into  the  burning  tepee  and 
his  father  pushed  headlong  over  the  cliff; 
heard  the  death-cries  of  the  Yosemites;  saw 
the  meadow  bathed  in  blood;  saw  the  end  of 
the  Yosemites;  and  crept  down  with  a  few 
survivors  late  that  night  to  the  valley  and 
escaped  to  the  whites.  "  '  Bloody  meadow,' 
white  man  call  it.  Him  good  name.  Wish 
Mono  come  now—  I  kill!  I  kill!"  and,  with 
dramatic  gesture  that  almost  startled  Job, 
the  old  man  waved  his  arms  and  was  silent. 

Somehow  after  that  the  conversation 
drifted  to  religion.  Bill  talked  of  the  Great 
Spirit,  Job  talked  of  God.  The  old  story  of 
the  Incarnation  —  how  this  Great  One  came 
down  to  live  among  men  and  love  us  all  — 


Job  told  as  best  he  could,  till  the  hard  heart 
of  the  child  of  nature  was  touched,  and  he 
wanted  to  know  if  Job  thought  He  loved 
poor  Indian  Bill.  It  was  very  late,  when 
Job  came  back  to  the  awful  massacre,  and 
tried  to  show  Bill  that  the  manly  thing  was 
not  to  cry,  "  I  kill,  I  kill."  but  "  I  forgive." 

The  old  man  listened  in  silence.  He  walked 
out  under  the  stars,  then  came  back  and  sat 
down  by  Job's  side  and  said,  "  Bill  heap 
bad.  Bill  hate  Mono  Indian."  Again  and 
again  he  paced  back  and  forth. 

Job  was  almost  asleep,  weary  with  watch 
ing  the  heart-struggles  of  the  wronged  old 
man,  when  at  last  he  came  and  said,  "  Boy, 
ask  Great  Spirit  forgive  Bill.  Bill  forgive 
Mono  Indian."  And  there,  at  midnight,  the 
love  that  transfigured  Hebrew  Peter.  Ger 
man  Luther,  English  Wesley,  that  had 
changed  Job  Maiden,  transformed  Indian 
Bill. 

It  was  fully  two  weeks  after  the  old  trap 
per  had  borne  him  into  his  humble  tent 
that  one  afternoon  Job  walked  off,  strong 
and  brave,  to  finish  his  journey  home.  Bill 
saw  him  down  to  the  river,  where  you  swing 
across  on  a  board  hung  on  a  cable,  helped 
pull  the  return  ropes  that  carry  the  novel 
car  across,  shouted  as  Job  clambered  up  the 
other  bank,  "Bill  heap  glad!  Love  Mono! 
Love  Job!  Good-by!"  and  was  off  out  of 
sight  through  the  woods  as  swift  and  lithe 
as  a  deer,  bound  on  another  of  his  hunting 
trips  far  back  of  El  Capitan. 

Job  saw  him  vanish;  and,  turning  with  a 
light  heart  and  a  merry  song,  climbed  the 
ridge  that  separates  the  North  Fork  from 
the  South  Fork,  fairly  ran  down  past  the 
old  tunnels  of  the  Cove  Mine,  skipped  over 
the  iron  bridge,  and  began  the  steady  climb 
of  six  miles  home. 


THE    TEANSFOEMAT1ON   OF    JOB. 


73 


CHAPTER     XXIV. 

"GETHSEMANE." 

IT  WAS  evening  and  Tony  was  carrying 
the  milk  from  the  barn  to  the  milk- 
house,  when  Job  tripped  down  the  trail 
from  Lookout  Point,  and  Shot  and  Carlo  ran 
barking  to  meet  him.  A  sort  of  momentary 
consciousness  that  Bess  was  not  there  came 
to  him,  then  something  that  sounded  like 
her  neigh  reached  his  ears.  A  shout  to 
Tony  —  who  in  his  surprise  dropped  the  milk 
pail  and  vanished  —  a  bound,  and  Job  was 
on  the  veranda.  He  pushed  open  the  door, 
and  stood  face  to  face  with  Andrew  Maiden. 

The  old  man's  face  was  white  and  deeply 
furrowed.  He  looked  ten  years  older  than 
when  Job  had  seen  him  last,  and  the  young 
man  felt  a  sharp  pang  of  remorse  to  think 
he  had  left  him.  Then  he  remembered  Jane 
and  knew  he  would  not  have  missed  the  trip 
for  all  the  world. 

At  sight  of  him  Andrew  Maiden's  face 
grew  still  whiter,  he  started  back  as  if  shot, 
and  fell  in  a  faint  on  the  couch.  Job  was 
appalled  and  greatly  mystified,  as  he  dashed 
water  into  the  wrinkled,  haggard  face. 

At  last  the  old  man's  eyes  opened  and  he 
whispered  hoarsely,  "  Oh.  Job!  Job!  how 
ccrald  you?  Once  I  could  have  believed  it,  but 
I  cannot  now!  Oh,  Job.  tell  me!  tell  me  all! 
I'll  stand  by  you,  though  you  did  it  — you're 
my  boy  still!  Oh,  Job,  it  is  awful,  awful! 
But  I  knew  you  would  come!  Oh,  Job!  oh, 
Job!"  he  moaned. 

Did  what?  "Awful"?  "Come"?  Of 
course  he  had  come.  It  was  an  accident, 
Job  explained;  he  did  not  mean  to  stay 
away. 

"  An  accident?  Oh,  yes,  I  told  them  so, 
Job;  but  they  won't  believe  it.  They  are 
coming  to  take  my  boy  and  —  oh,  I  can't 
stand  it!  I  won't  stand  it!"  and  Andrew 
Maiden  tottered  to  and  fro  across  the  room. 

Was  the  old  man  insane?  Had  something 
dreadful  happened?  Job  stood,  his  face 
growing  paler,  his  heart  sinking  with  an 
undefined  fear.  Then  he  caught  the  words. 


"Jane  — dead —  you!"  —  words  that  made 
every  nerve  quiver,  and  tortured  him  till  he 
sank  on  his  knees  and  begged  to  know  the 
worst. 

Oh,  the  awful  story!  It  burned  Into  the 
depths  of  his  soul.  Now  It  seemed  like  a 
dream,  now  dreadful  reality.  Jane  was  dead. 
Somebody  had  found  her  lifeless  and  still 
on  the  rocks  below  the  cliff  just  around  from 
Inspiration  Point,  and  Bess  had  come  home 
riderless.  All  the  country  was  wild  with 
excitement.  Everybody  was  searching  for 
him.  He  had  done  it,  they  said.  Tom  Reed 
had  seen  him  go  away  with  her,  and  knew 
there  was  a  quarrel  on  hand.  Dan  was  tell 
ing  that  Jane  had  promised  to  marry  him. 
and  that  Job  had  followed  her  to  the  valley 
to  make  her  break  the  engagement  or  kill 
her.  All  the  evidence  was  against  Job. 
They  had  buried  her  from  the  old  church, 
buried  her  in  the  cemetery  on  the  hill,  out 
side  of  whose  gate  his  father  lay.  Yes,  Jane 
was  dead! 

Job  listened  and  listened  —  all  else  fell  un 
heeded  on  his  ear.  Jane  was  dead,  his  Jane, 
and  lay  beneath  the  pines  far  down  the  Gold 
City  road!  It  was  all  he  heard  — it  was  all 
he  knew.  He  did  not  stop  to  explain;  he 
heard  Bess  neigh  again,  and  rushed  out  into 
the  shadowy  night,  and  mounted  her  with 
only  a  bridle.  He  heeded  not  the  old  man's 
cries.  His  brain  was  on  fire,  his  soul  in 
agony.  Only  one  thing  he  knew  —  Jane 
was  dead  and  he  must  go  to  her;  go  as  fast 
as  Bess  could  fly  down  that  road  which 
many  a  dark  night  she  had  traveled. 

Men  standing  on  the  steps  of  the  Miners' 
Home  that  evening  said  a  dark  ghost  went 
by  like  a  flash  —  it  was  too  swift  for  a  flesh- 
and-blood  horse  and  rider  —  and  they  crept 
in  by  the  bar  and  drank  to  quiet  their  fears. 

He  found  it  at  last.  The  fresh  earth,  the 
uplifted  pine  cross  with  the  one  word 
"Jane"  on  it.  told  the  story.  He  left  Bess 
to  roam  among  the  white  stones  and  the 
grass,  flung  himself  across  that  mound,  half 
hid  by  withered  flowers,  and  lay  as  if  dead 
—  dead  as  she  who  slept  beneath.  At  last 


74 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF   JOB. 


the  sobs  came;  the  tears  mingled  with  the 
flowers;  the  heart  of  manhood  was  bleeding. 
Jane  was  dead!  How  had  it  happened? 
Who  had  done  this  awful  thing?  God  or 
man,  it  mattered  little  to  him.  The  dreadful 
fact  that  burned  itself  deeper  and  deeper 
into  his  soul  was  — Jane  was  dead! 

Oh,  that  awful  night!  The  stars  forgot 
to  shine;  the  trees  moaned  over  his  head; 
the  lightnings  played  on  yonder  mountains. 
The  thunders  rolled,  and  he  heeded  them  not; 
the  rain-drops  pattered  now  and  then  on 
the  branches  above,  but  he  never  knew  it. 

Gethsemane!  Once  it  had  seemed  a  strange, 
far-away  place  where  the  heart  broke  and 
the  cup  was  drunk  to  its  bitter  dregs.  Job 
had  wondered  what  it  meant.  He  knew 
now.  It  was  here  on  the  slopes  of  the 
Sierras.  These  pines  were  the  gnarle'd  olive 
trees,  this  was  the  garden  of  grief.  Geth 
semane— it  had  come  into  the  life  of  Job 
Maiden. 

At  length  the  first  great  storm  of  grief 
had  spent  itself,  and  he  sat  alone  in  the  si 
lence  broken  only  by  the  far-off  mutter  of 
thunder;  sat  alone  with  his  dead  and  his 
thoughts.  Again,  as  on  far  Glacier  Point, 
memory  came  and  turned  the  pages  of  a  life 
time.  He  was  back  in  the  old  boyhood  days, 
laughing  at  her  dusty,  tanned  feet  —  he 
would  kneel  to  kiss  them  now,  if  he  could; 
again  he  was  climbing  Sugar  Pine  trail  with 
her;  he  was  following  her  and  Dan  out  on 
that  bitter  winter  night,  maddened  with 
jealousy  and  drink.  Still  the  pages  turned. 
He  was  kneeling  by  her  side  at  the  Com 
munion  table,  and  a  voice  said,  "  As  oft  as 
ye  drink  of  this  cup  "  —  he  was  drinking  of 
it  now  — the  cup  the  Master  drank  in  the 
garden's  gloom.  Then  the  sobs  overcame 
him.  Again  he  was  still.  The  storm  had 
spent  its  fury,  the  moon  was  struggling 
through  the  rifted  clouds.  He  remembered 
Glacier  Point  and  that  immortal  night,  and 
he  felt  as  if  she  was  here  and  God  was  here, 
and  he  knelt  and  prayed,  "  Thy  will,  not 
mine,  be  done."  and  the  angels  of  peace 
and  rest  came  and  ministered  unto  him. 


From  sheer  exhaustion  he  finally  slept.  It 
was  but  the  passing  of  a  moment,  and  he 
was  awake  again.  There  in  the  moonlight 
he  read.  "Jane."  Could  he  bear  it?  He 
could  see  her  now  saying  good-by.  Oh,  it 
was  forever,  forever!  Then,  like  a  flash  it 
came  —  forever?  No;  only  a  little  span  of 
life,  and,  at  the  gates  of  pearl,  he  would  see 
her  waiting  to  welcome  him.  She  was  there 
now,  up  where  the  stars  were  shining  and 
the  moon  had  parted  the  clouds.  Her  frail 
body  was  here  perhaps  —  but  Jane,  his  Jane, 
who  that  night  at  Glacier  Point  had  said  she 
loved  him  —  she  was  there.  He  would  be 
brave;  he  would  be  true  to  God;  he  would 
lean  on  the  Master's  arm.  Jesus  was  left  — 
he  was  with  him  here  in  the  lonely  grave 
yard,  and  Jane  was  his  still  for  all  eter 
nity. 

The  young  man  looked  up  from  the  dark 
earth  to  the  clear  sky,  and  prayed  a  prayer 
of  hope  and  trust  and  submission.  Near  the 
hour  of  dawn  he  walked  out  to  the  gate 
where  Bess  stood  waiting.  He  mounted 
her  — dear  Bess!  who  alone  knew  the  story 
of  the  awful  tragedy.  He  patted  her  neck; 
he  whispered  his  sorrow  in  her  ear.  And 
then  a  strange,  wild  thought  came  to  him. 
He  would  not  go  back  —  he  would  go  away 
to  the  great,  outside  world,  never  to  see  the 
mountains  again.  How  could  he  ever  climb 
Sugar  Pine  Hill,  or  go  past  the  old  school- 
house,  or  enter  the  old  church?  He  would 
go  where  no  gleam  from  sun-kissed  El  Capi- 
tan  could  reach  his  eye,  where  no  associa 
tions  that  would  remind  of  a  life  forever 
past  could  haunt  his  soul. 

Then  he  remembered  something  —  it 
seemed  like  a  nightmare.  They  had  said  he 
did  it  —  how,  when,  why,  he  knew  not.  If 
he  went  away  they  would  think  he  was 
afraid  to  face  them,  they  would  believe  him 
guilty,  and  the  old  man  would  be  broken 
hearted.  Job  had  forgotten  him  —  he  had 
forgotten  all  but  his  awful  sorrow.  What  of 
it?  Go  anyway,  his  heart  said.  Go  away 
from  this  world  that  has  been  full  of  trial 
after  trial  for  you.  No  matter  what  men 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


75 


think.  God  knows  — God  can  take  care  of 
the  old  man. 

There  on  Bess'  back  Job  sat,  while  the  bit 
ter  conflict  within  went  on. 

It  was  over  at  last.  He  turned  Bess'  steps 
toward  Pine  Mountain  and  home.  He  would 
face  it  all  —  the  world's  scorn,  the  old 
scenes  which  seemed  each  one  to  pierce 
anew  his  heart.  He  had  been  down  to  Geth- 
semane;  he  would  climb  Calvary. 


CHAPTER     XXV. 

VIA    DOLOROSA. 

•  •  ~T~  TELL  you  he'll  come!  Don't  say 
that  about  my  boy!  It  was  an 
accident  — he  said  so  —  I  heard  him! 
He  can  explain  it  all.  He  saw  it!  He'll 
come!"  were  the  words  Job  heard  Andrew 
Maiden  saying  as  he  rode  up  to  Pine  Tree 
Ranch  in  the  dim  light  of  early  morning. 
The  sheriff  and  his  deputy  had  come  for 
Job;  and,  maddened  to  find  him  gone,  were 
cursing  the  old  man  and  the  one  they 
sought. 

Andrew  Maiden,  quivering  with  excite 
ment,  tortured  by  a  thousand  fears,  won 
dering  if  he  would  come,  was  defending  as 
best  he  could  the  young  man  whom  he  loved, 
in  this  awful  hour,  more  than  ever  before. 

Job  was  close  beside  them  before  they 
saw  him.  Hitching  Bess,  he  walked  up  to 
the  door,  saluted  the  sheriff,  and  calmly 
asked: 

"  Were  you  looking  for  me?" 

The  sight  of  that  pale,  manly  face  for  a 
moment  stilled  the  bluster  of  the  rough  offi 
cer  of  the  law,  and  he  almost  apologized  as 
he  told  Job  he  was  under  the  painful  neces 
sity  of  taking  him  to  the  county  jail  to 
answer  to  the  charge  of  homicide  — the 
murder  of  a  girl  named  Jane  Reed.  Job 
winced  under  the  sting  of  the  words.  For  a 
moment  he  felt  like  striking  the  man  a  blow 
for  mentioning  that  sacred  name;  then  he 
bit  his  lip,  sent  up  a  silent  prayer,  and  said: 


"Very  well,  sir;  I  will  mount  my  horse 
and  follow  you.  I  know  the  way  well." 

In  a  flash  the  burly  sheriff  whipped  the 
hand-cuffs  upon  his  wrists,  and  said: 

"  Ride!  Well,  I  guess  not!  You'll  play 
none  of  your  games  on  me!  You  will  ride 
between  me  and  my  deputy,  Mr.  Dean!" 
And  then  Job  discovered  for  the  first  time 
that  Marshall  Dean  was  eying  him  with  a 
malicious  grin  of  satisfaction. 

In  a  moment,  seated  in  the  buckboard  be 
tween  the  two  men,  with  only  time  for  a 
good-by  to  Bess,  a  shake  of  the  old  man's 
hand,  and  never  a  moment  to  explain  that 
the  accident  he  had  mentioned  had  befallen 
himself,  not  Jane,  Job  Maiden  rode  down 
over  the  Pine  Tree  road,  handcuffed,  on  his 
way  to  the  county  jail  at  Gold  City. 

Past  the  Miners'  Home  and  the  Palace 
Hotel  they  drove  at  last.  Bitter  faces  glared 
into  the  prisoner's,  friends  of  other  days  met 
him  with  silence,  and  here  and  there  a  voice 
cried,  "  Lynch  him!"  Up  past  the  old  church 
where  he  and  Jane  had  gone  and  come  to 
gether;  up  to  the  door  of  the  quaint  white 
court  house  with  square  tower  and  green 
blinds  they  drove,  and  Job  passed  through 
the  rear  door,  and  into  the  narrow,  dark 
dungeon,  with  only,  high  up,  a  little  iron- 
barred  window  to  let  in  light  and  air  —  a 
prisoner  of  Grizzly  county,  to  answer  for  the 
killing  of  Jane  Reed. 

Only  when  he  heard  the  sound  of  the  bolt 
in  the  door,  heard  the  crowd  outside  cheer 
ing  the  sheriff  for  his  bravery  in  capturing 
the  outlaw,  and,  seated  on  the  narrow  cot, 
looked  around  the  cheerless  cell  with  no 
other  furniture,  did  a  sense  of  what  it  all 
meant  msh  over  him.  Then  the  hot  tears 
came,  his  head  sank  between  his  hands, 
and  he  felt  that  he  had  taken  the  first  step 
up  Calvary.  Like  a  far-off  murmur  there 
came  to  him  the  words  he  had  said  in 
his  heart  on  that  long  -  ago  Communion 
Sunday:' 

"  Where   He  leads  me  I   will   follow, 
I'll  go  with  Him  all  the  way." 


76 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


All  the  way?  Ah,  he  was  beginning  to 
know  what  that  meant!  Then  there  came 
that  other  verse  —  how  it  soothed  his 
troubled  heart! 

"  He  will  give  me  grace  and  glory, 
And  go  with  me  all  the  way." 

Just  then  the  sun  stole  in  at  the  little  cell 
window,  and  the  perpendicular  and  horizon 
tal  bars  made  the  shadow  of  a  cross  on  the 
floor,  all  surrounded  by  a  flood  of  light.  A 
great  peace  came  into  Job  Maiden's  heart, 
as  the  Master  whispered,  "  I  will  never 
leave  thee  nor  forsake  thee." 

All  Gold  City  was  stirred  to  its  depths. 
Nothing  had  happened  in  forty  years  to  so 
move  the  hearts  of  men.  Business  was  for 
gotten,  groups  of  men  met  and  talked  long 
OP  the  street  corners,  the  mining  camp  was 
deserted.  There  was  but  one  theme  —  the 
tragedy  of  Inspiration  Point.  Up  at  the 
Yellow  Jacket  a  great  sliadow  rested  over 
office,  church  and  the  miners'  shanties.  On 
the  lowest  levels  of  the  mines,  grimy  men 
looked  into  each  other's  faces  and  talked 
in  an  undertone  of  the  awful  fear  which 
they  would  not  have  the  rocks  and  the  secret 
places  of  the  earth  know;  that  "  the  parson  '' 
was  in  a  murderer's  cell,  and  the  storm 
clouds  were  gathering  fast  about  him,  and 
the  worst  was,  he  was  guilty  —  it  must  be 
so! 

The  superintendent  drove  his  team  on  a 
run  to  the  court  house,  and  offered  any 
amount  of  bail.  This  was  refused,  and  he 
was  denied  even  a  look  at  Job.  Up  at  the 
ranch.  Andrew  Maiden  neither  ate  nor 
slept.  A  terrible  nightmare  hung  over  him. 
His  boy  was  innocent,  of  course  he  was. 
But  oh,  It  was  awful!  The  saloons  were 
crowded,  and  a  furtive  chuckle  passed 
around  the  bars.  He  was  caged  now,  the 
one  they  hated,  and  the  evil  element  were 
in  high  glee.  O'Donnell  and  Dan  Dean,  Col. 
Dick  and  the  sheriff,  were  the  center  of 
crowds  who  hung  on  their  words,  as  they 
told  the  story  of  the  crime  over  and  over 


with  a  new  force  and  new  aspect  that 
showed  the  utter  hypocrisy,  treachery  and 
sin  of  Job. 

The  church  was  crowded.  The  preacher 
could  not  believe  Job  guilty,  but  he  dared 
not  say  so.  Tom  Reed,  wild  with  grief, 
pleaded  with  men  to  break  open  the  jail  and 
let  him  slay  the  murderer,  slay  him  and 
avenge  his  Jane  —  his  black-eyed,  great 
hearted  Jane.  The  city  reporters  were  busy, 
and  the  papers  glowed  with  accounts  and 
photographs  of  "  the  awful  wretch  who  was 
safely  held  behind  the  bars  of  the  Gold  City 
jail."  So  the  storm  surged  to  and  fro,  so 
the  days  passed,  to  that  dark  ninth  of 
August  when  the  trial  was  to  begin. 

Of  all  the  throng  of  men  in  the  mountains 
in  those  days,  he  alone  who  sat  in  the  silence 
of  a  dungeon  in  the  old  court  house,  was 
unmoved  and  at  peace.  Through  the  long 
hours  he  sat  recalling  memories  of  past 
years,  living  again  the  scenes  of  yesterday, 
which  seemed  to  belong  to  another  world 
and  another  life  now  gone  forever.  From  his 
pocket  he  drew  again  and  again  the  little 
Testament  still  fragrant  with  a  mother's 
dying  kiss,  and  felt  himself  as  much  a  home 
less,  motherless  boy  as  upon  that  long-ago 
night  when  he  first  saw  Gold  City  and  fell 
asleep  on  the  "  Palace  "  doorsteps.  He  read 
it  over  and  over.  It  was  of  Gethsemane, 
the  Last  Supper  and  Calvary  he  read  most. 
He  knew  now  what  they  meant.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  words,  "  What  shall  separate 
us  from  the  love  of  God?"  and  the  conscious 
ness  that  God  was  left,  that  Jesus  was  his, 
was  like  a  mighty  arm  bearing  him  up. 

They  asked  him  for  his  defense.  He  said 
he  had  none,  except  the  fact  that  he  knew 
nothing  about  the  deed.  They  scorned  that, 
and  asked  whom  he  wished  for  a  lawyer. 
He  had  no  choice  —  cared  for  none.  The 
judge  sent  him  a  young  infidel  attorney,  the 
sheriff  refused  him  the  privilege  of  seeing 
anyone,  the  iron  gate  was  double  -  barred, 
and  closer  and  closer  the  web  of  evidence 
was  drawn  about  him  ready  for  the  day  of 
the  trial. 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF   JOB. 


77 


He  asked  for  Andrew  Maiden,  but  was 
refused.  He  begged  them  to  send  for  Indian 
Bill;  they  made  a  pretense  of  doing  so,  but 
the  trapper  was  far  from  human  reach,  far 
up  in  the  wilderness  beyond  El  Capitan. 
All  Job  could  do  was  to  pray  and  wait,  little 
caring  what  the  outcome  might  be,  little 
caring  what  might  be  the  verdict  of  the 
world  of  Gold  City;  knowing  only  two  things 
—  that  Jane  was  dead  and  life  could  never 
be  the  same  to  him;  and  that  the  God  who 
looked  down  in  tender  compassion  on  his 
child  shut  in  between  those  dark  stone 
walls,  knew  all  about  it.  Job  had  read  how 
one  like  unto  an  angel  walked  in  the  furnace 
of  old  with  God's  saints;  he  felt,  now,  that 
the  Christ  came  and  sat  by  his  side  in  those 
lonely  prison  hours. 

It  was  Monday,  the  ninth  of  August.  The 
sun's  rays  beat  down  on  the  dusty  streets  of 
Gold  City  and  glared  from  the  white  walls 
of  the  court  house.  At  ten  o'clock  the  trial 
would  commence  —  the  great  trial  of  "  The 
State  vs.  Job  Teale  Maiden."  The  streets 
were  thronged  with  vehicles;  it  was  like  one 
of  the  old-time  Sunday  picnics,  only  saint  as 
well  as  sinner  was  here.  The  Yellow  Jacket 
had  closed  down  by  common  consent  of 
all,  and  hundreds  of  workingmen  were  pour 
ing  into  town  in  stages  and  buckboards,  on 
horseback  and  on  foot.  The  old  court  house 
was  packed  to  its  utmost  capacity;  the  gal 
lery  and  stairs  were  one  mass  of  writhing 
humanity.  Outside,  they  stood  like  a  great 
encampment,  stretching  away,  tilling  the 
whole  square.  Still  they  came  from  Mormon 
Bar  and  Wawona  —  the  greatest  throng  in 
the  history  of  Grizzly  county;  men,  women, 
and  children  in  arms  —  all  to  see  Job  Maiden 
tried  for  his  life. 

Through  this  crowd,  Andrew  Maiden,  lean 
ing  on  his  cane,  passed  in  at  the  great  door 
by  Tony's  side.  The  crowd  was  silent  as  he 
passed.  Some  muttered  under  their  breath; 
some  lifted  their  hats.  That  worn,  gaunt 
face  startled  them  all.  It  was  through  this 
same  crowd  that  Tom  Reed,  with  darkened 


brow,  and  Dan  Dean,  limping  on  his 
crutches,  passed  in  together. 

The  clock  in  the  tower  struck  ten.  Job  in 
his  cell  heard  it  above  the  din  of  innumer 
able  feet  passing  over  bis  head;  heard  it 
and  knelt  in  an  earnest  prayer  for  grace 
to  bear  whatever  might  come;  to  suffer  and 
be  still  as  his  Master  did  of  old.  He  had 
gone  all  over  it  again  and  again;  they  knew 
his  story  of  the  walk  down  the  canon  trail 
with  Indian  Bill,  but  even  the  lawyer 
doubted  it.  If  they  knew  of  Glacier  Point 
and  the  betrothal,  they  might  believe  him. 
Should  he  tell  it?  All  night  be  had  paced 
the  cell  wondering  if  he  ought  —  if  he  could. 
As  he  knelt  in  that  hour,  he  resolved  that, 
though  it  would  save  his  life,  no  human  ear 
should  ever  hear  that  sacred  secret.  That 
hour  on  Glacier  Point  should  be  unveiled  to 
no  human  eye,  but  remain  locked  in  the 
chambers  of  his  soul,  known  only  to  God 
and  her  who  waited  yonder  for  his  coming. 

It  was  near  noon  when  the  judge  ascended 
the  bench.  The  hubbub  of  voices  ceased,  the 
case  was  called,  the  rear  door  opened,  and, 
led  in  by  the  sheriff,  handcuffed  and  guarded, 
with  calm,  white  face,  yet  never  faltering 
in  step  or  look.  Job  Maiden  walked  across 
the  floor  to  the  prisoner's  seat,  while  the 
crowd  gazed  in  curiosity,  that  soon  changed 
to  awe  and  reverence,  at  that  grave  face,  so 
deeply  marked  with  scars  of  grief. 

It  was  a  strange  scene  that  met  Job's  gaze. 
All  the  familiar  faces  were  there  —  Aunty 
Perkins  and  Tim's  father;  Dean  and  O'Don- 
nell  glaring  at  him;  poor  old  Andrew  Maiden 
leaning  on  his  cane;  Tony  and  Hans  and 
Tom  Reed  and  — oh,  no!  Jane  was  not  there, 
but  gone  forever  from  Gold  City  and  its 
strange,  hard  life.  A  tear  stole  down  the 
prisoner's  cheek  —  he  wiped  it  away.  His 
enemies  saw  it  and  winked.  Tim's  father 
saw  it  and  moaned  aloud.  The  clock  struck 
twelve  in  the  high  tower,  and  proceedings 
began. 

It  was  two  days  before  the  trial  was  well 
under  way.  The  quibbling  of  the  lawyers, 
the  choosing  of  a  jury,  the  hearing  of  the 


78 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


witnesses  who  had  found  the  wounded, 
silent  form  of  Jane  Reed  on  the  rocks  be 
neath  the  famous  Point,  filled  the  hours. 
Morning  after  morning,  the  scenes  of  that 
first  day  were  repeated  in  the  court  room; 
the  great  crowds,  the  intense  excitement, 
the  friends  and  enemies  intently  listening  to 
every  word  and  watching  every  movement 
of  the  prisoner.  And  calm  and  still,  with 
never  a  sign  of  fear  or  shame  on  his  face. 
Job  Maiden  sat  in  that  court  room  hour  after 
hour,  and  One  unseen  stood  at  his  side. 

On  the  third  day  the  prosecution  began  to 
weave  its  web  of  circumstantial  evidence 
about  Job.  How  shrewd  it  was!  How  care 
fully  each  suspicious  incident  was  told  and 
retold!  How  meanly  everything  bad  in  his 
life  was  emphasized,  everything  good  for 
gotten!  They  brought  the  tales  of  long-ago 
years  when  he  was  a  mere  boy.  They 
proved  that  the  passionate  blood  of  a 
gambler  was  in  his  veins;  that  his  father 
before  him  had  shot  a  companion.  The  story 
of  the  horse-race  and  escapades  of  the  reck 
less  days  of  old  were  rehearsed  by  hosts  of 
witnesses.  It  was  proved,  by  an  intricate 
line  of  cross-questions,  that  once  before,  on 
a  bitter  winter's  night,  young  Maiden  had 
pursued  this  girl  and  Dan  Dean  with  the 
avowed  intention  of  harming  them.  The  hot 
blood  came  to  Job's  face  —  he  well  remem 
bered  that  night.  Then  he  seemed  to  hear 
the  distant  voice  of  Indian  Bill  saying  by  the 
roaring  Merced,  "Bill  forgive  Mono  Indian;" 
and,  sitting  there  with  this  tale  pouring  into 
the  ears  of  the  throng  who  looked  more  and 
more  askance  at  him,  Job  said  deep  in  his 
soul,  "  Forgive  us  our  trespasses,  as  we  for 
give  those  who  trespass  against  us.  Father, 
I  forgive,  I  forgive!" 

Closer  and  closer  they  drew  the  web. 
They  made  Andrew  Maiden  —  poor  old  man! 
—  confess  that  he  had  heard  Job  say,  "  It 
was  an  accident,"  then  showed  that  he  had 
denied  knowing  aught  of  Jane's  death  until 
lie  reached  home.  Then  Tom  Reed  took  the 
stand.  He  testified  that  all  Jane's  prefer 
ence  was  for  Dan;  that  she  went  to  him 


when  he  and  Job  were  both  so  ill;  that  she 
wrote  to  Dan  and  never  wrote  to  Job.  The 
old  man  fairly  shook  with  rage  as  on  the 
witness-stand  he  took  every  chance  to  de 
nounce  the  "  hypocrite  and  'ristocrat." 
Minutely  he  pictured  Job's  coming  to  the 
valley,  the  heated  arguments  he  was  sure 
the  two  had  had,  and  how  upon  that  awful 
day  when  Jane  left  him  forever,  she  had 
walked  away  by  the  side  of  Job  Maiden. 

Daniel  Dean  was  the  next  witness.  The 
crowd  hung  breathless  on  his  words. 
Stumping  up  on  his  crutches,  Dan  took  the 
chance  of  a  lifetime  to  vent  his  hatred  of 
Job.  Keen,  shreAvd,  too  wise  to  speak  out 
plainly,  but  wise  enough  to  know  the  blight 
ing  influence  of  suggestion,  Dan  talked,  in 
sinuated  and  lied  till  the  nails  were  driven 
one  by  one  into  poor  Job's  heart  and  the 
pain  was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear. 
Insidiously,  indirectly,  he  gave  them  all  to 
understand  that  Jane  Reed  loved  him  and 
again  and  again  by  her  actions  had  shown 
preference  for  himself.  Then  down  the 
aisle  he  passed,  while  the  crowd  looked  at 
him  in  pity,  and  Job  felt  as  if  he  must  rise 
and  tell  of  the  night  at  Glacier  Point,  must 
vindicate  the  memory  of  Jane  Reed.  But 
no!  God  knew  all.  Some  things  are  too 
sacred  to  tell  to  any  ear  but  his.  He  must 
suffer  and  be  still. 

When  Job  went  back  to  his  lonely  cell 
that  night  a  boy  was  whistling  on  the  street, 
"  I'll  go  with  Him  all  the  way,"  and  Job 
Maiden  took  up  the  words  and  said  them 
with  a  meaning  he  had  never  known  before. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
"  CALVARY." 

ON  THE  fourth  day  the  court  called  for 
the    defense.     Curiosity    reached    its 
culmination.      Men     fought     for     a 
chance  to  get  within  hearing  distance.    Dan 
and  his  comrades  sat  with  an  indolent  air 
of    satisfaction.      Aunty    Perkins    crowded 


THE    TBANSFOEMAT10N   OF    JOB. 


79 


close  to  the  front.  Through  the  door  and 
up  to  the  very  railing  which  enclosed  the 
active  participants,  Andrew  Maiden  and 
Tony  made  their  way.  There  were  only 
four  possible  points  for  the  defense.  First, 
it  might  prove  Job's  changed  character; 
second,  that  it  was  Job,  not  Dan,  to  whom 
Jane  Reed  was  betrothed;  third,  that  Job 
was  far  away  in  the  Merced  Canon  with 
Indian  Bill  at  the  time  of  the  death;  fourth, 
to  show  by  what  cause  death  came  to  the 
fated  girl. 

The  last,  the  defense  could  not  prove;  for 
the  third,  they  had  no  evidence  but  the  pris 
oner's  own  word,  and  that  the  court  would 
not  accept;  the  second,  not  even  the  lawyer 
or  Andrew  Maiden  knew,  and  no  power  on 
earth  could  make  Job  Maiden  tell  it;  there 
was  no  defense  to  make  except  to  show  the 
character  of  Job  and  plead  the  fact  that  cir 
cumstantial  evidence  was  not  proof  of  guilt. 

He  did  his  best,  that  bungling  young  attor 
ney.  He  tried  to  take  advantage  of  tech 
nicalities,  but  Job  utterly  forbade  that.  If 
righteousness  and  God  could  not  clear  him. 
nothing  else  could.  The  defense  was  lame, 
but  it  proved  that  some  people  believed  in 
Job  and  loved  him.  Tim's  father  told,  be 
tween  his  tears,  the  story  of  "  Tim's  praist." 
Aunty  Perkins  and  the  preacher  spoke  ring 
ing  words  for  him.  From  the  Yellow  Jacket 
men  came  and  defended  his  noble  life.  But 
it  all  went  for  naught  with  that  jury.  It 
was  facts,  not  sentiment,  they  wanted.  All 
this  might  be  true,  but  if  Job  Maiden  had 
done  the  awful  deed  which  the  evidence 
went  to  show,  then  these  things  only  made 
his  crime  the  blacker. 

The  defense  finished  at  noon,  and  the 
lawyers  began  their  pleas  at  one  o'clock. 
They  hardly  needed  to  speak  —  Grizzly 
county  had  tried  the  case  and  the  verdict 
was  in.  Yet  they  spoke.  How  eloquently 
the  prosecuting  attorney  showed  the  influ 
ence  of  heredity  —  that  the  evil  in  the 
father  would  show  itself  some  day  in  the 
boy!  How  he  pictured  the  temporary  re 
ligious  change  in  Job's  life,  and  then  his 


relapse  as  the  old  fever  came  back  into  his 
blood!  He  had  relapsed  before,  they  all 
knew.  He  did  not  doubt  his  temporary  good 
ness;  but  love  is  stronger  than  fear  and 
hatred  than  integrity,  and  meeting  Jane  in 
the  valley  had  roused  all  the  old  passion. 
Out  on  the  cliff  ,they  had  walked,  they  had 
quarreled,  all  the  old  fire  of  his  father  had 
come  back  —  perhaps  the  boy  was  not  to 
blame  —  and,  standing  there  alone  with  the 
girl  who  would  not  promise  to  be  his  wife, 
in  his  rage  he  had  struck  her,  and  over 
the  cliff  she  had  gone,  down,  down,  on  the 
cruel  rocks,  to  her  death,  and  he  had  fled 
over  the  mountains  till,  goaded  by  con 
science,  haunted  by  awful  guilt,  he  had  come 
home  and  given  himself  up. 

The  crowd  shuddered  as  he  spoke.  Tom 
Reed  fainted,  Andrew  Maiden  grew  deathly 
white  and  raised  his  wan  hand  in  protest, 
but  still  the  speaker  kept  on.  Job  listened 
as  if  it  were  of  another  he  spoke.  He  could 
see  it  all  —  how  awful  it  was!  — and  it  was 
Jane  and  he  had  done  it!  He  almost  be 
lieved  he  had;  that  man  who  stood  there, 
carrying  the  whole  throng  with  him.  made 
it  so  clear.  The  voice  ceased.  Then  Job 
roused  himself.  The  consciousness  that  it 
was  all  false,  terribly  false,  came  over  him, 
and  he  leaned  hard  on  God. 

The  attorney  for  the  defense  said  but  a 
word.  For  a  moment  it  thrilled  the  multi 
tude.  It  was  a  strange  speech.  This  is 
what  he  said:  "Your  honor  and  gentlemen 
of  the  jury,  the  only  defense  I  have  is  the 
character  of  the  young  man.  I  can  say 
nothing  more  than  you  have  heard  to  show 
how  far  beneath  him  is  such  a  crime  as 
this.  I  know  you  doubt  his  word,  I  know 
you  are  against  him;  but,  before  these  peo 
ple  who  know  me  as  an  infidel  —  before  God 
who  looks  down  and  knows  the  hearts  of 
men  —  I  want  to  say  that  I  believe  in  Job 
Maiden.  What  I  have  seen  of  him  in  these 
awful  days  has  changed  my  whole  life. 
Henceforth  I  believe  in  God." 

It  was  over.  The  judge  was  charging  the 
jury,  "  Bring  in  a  verdict  consistent  with 


80 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


the  facts,  gentlemen;  the  facts,  not  senti 
ment."  The  sun  was  setting.  The  jury  re 
tired  for  the  night;  they  would  bring  in  a 
verdict  in  the  morning. 

But  the  verdict  was  in.  Even  Andrew 
Maiden  groaned  as  he  leaned  on  Tony's  arm, 
"Oh,  Tony!  Tony!  How  could  he  have  done 
it!"  As  Job  turned  to  go  back  to  his  cell, 
he  looked  over  that  great  crowd  for  one  face 
that  trusted  him,  but  on  each  seemed  writ 
ten,  "  Guilty!"  He  felt  as  if  the  whole  world 
had  turned  from  him  and  the  years  had 
gone  for  naught.  There  was  no  voice  to 
whisper  a  loving  word.  "  Forsaken!  for 
saken!"  He  said  it  over  and  over.  His  head 
was  hot,  his  pulse  was  feverish.  He  longed 
for  the  touch  of  his  mother's  hand;  he  was 
hungry  for  the  sound  of  Jane's  voice;  he 
longed  to  lay  his  head  on  Andrew  Maiden's 
knee;  but  he  was  alone  —  Calvary  was  here. 
The  crucifixion  hour  had  come. 

At  midnight  he  awoke.  A  strong  arm 
seemed  to  hold  him,  a  voice  to  say,  "  When 
thou  passest  through  the  waters.  I  will  be 
with  thee;  when  thou  walkest  through  the 
fire,  thou  shalt  not  be  burned."  It  was  the 
Christ.  There  alone  on  the  summit  of  the 
mount  of  the  cross,  amid  the  bitterness  of 
the  world,  pierced  to  the  heart,  crucified  in 
soul,  Job  Maiden  stood  with  his  Master. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE    VERDICT. 

IT  WAS  Friday  morning.  The  last  day 
of  the  trial  had  come.  The  hot  sun 
beat  down  on  hundreds  pressing  their 
way  towards  the  old  court  house,  too  excited 
to  be  weary-  Never  had  Gold  City  known 
such  a  day.  The  court  room  was  crowded 
two  hours  before  the  judge  came  to  the 
bench.  A  profound  silence  filled  the  place. 
WThen  Job  entered  one  could  have  felt  the 
stillness.  All  knew  the  verdict  —  all  dreaded 
to  hear  it.  Dan  Dean  shrank  down  behind 
the  post  when  the  jury  filed  in.  Job  sat 


with  a  far-away  look  in  his  eyes.  Men,  gaz 
ing  at  him,  were  reminded  of  pictures  of  the 
old  saints. 

The  preliminaries  were  over,  and  the  fore 
man  of  the  jury  rose  to  give  the  verdict. 
Men  held  their  breath.  Women  grew  pale 
and  trembled.  In  a  clear  voice  he  said  it: 
"  Guilty!"  For  a  moment  the  hush  lasted; 
then  Andrew  Maiden  fainted,  Tim's  father 
cried,  "  My  God!  My  God!"  a  storm  of  tears 
swept  over  the  throng,  and  Job  sat  motion 
less,  while  a  look  of  great  peace  came  into 
his  face  and  in  his  soul  he  murmured,  "  It  is 
finished!" 

But  the  judge  was  speaking.  He  was 
denying  the  motion  for  a  new  trial;  he  was 
asking  if  the  prisoner  had  aught  to  say  why 
sentence  should  not  be  pronounced  against 
him,  when  a  voice  that  startled  all  rang 
through  the  great  room: 

"White  man,  hear!    Bill  talk!" 

There  he  stood  —  from  whence  he  came  no 
one  knew  —  his  old  gray  blanket  wrapped 
about  him,  his  long  black  hair  falling  in  a 
mass  over  his  shoulders,  the  blue  overalls 
still  hanging  about  his  great  brown  feet. 
With  hand  outstretched,  he  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  in  silence,  while  judge  and  jury  and 
throng  were  at  his  command. 

Then  he  spoke;  brief,  to  the  point,  fiery, 
strong.  The  crowd  was  spellbound.  He 
carried  bench  and  jury  and  all  with  him. 
He  told  of  the  day  in  Merced  Canon;  of  the 
figure  on  the  distant  cliff;  of  the  earthquake 
and  Job's  fall;  how  he  had  seen  what  he 
dared  not  tell  the  boy  —  the  cliff  give  way. 
a  white  thing  go  down,  down,  out  of  sight. 
Told  of  Job's  many  hours  in  his  tepee,  and 
of  how  the  boy  had  brought  him  to  the 
Great  Spirit,  who  took  the  hate  all  out  of 
his  heart.  On  he  talked,  till  Job's  every 
statement  was  corroborated,  till  a  revulsion 
of  feeling  swept  over  the  multitude,  till  they 
saw  it  all  vividly:  that  it  was  the  earth 
quake  —  it  was  God,  not  man,  who  had 
called  Jane  Reed  from  this  world;  that  the 
prisoner  was  as  innocent  as  the  baby  yonder 
prattling  in  its  mother's  arms. 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF   JOB. 


81 


Dan  slunk  out  of  the  door,  Tom  Reed  sat 
in  silent  awe,  Tim's  father  was  in  tears, 
Tony  shouted,  "  Bi-ess  de  Lawd!"  And  only 
Job  said  never  a  word,  as  the  judge,  dis 
regarding  all  precedent,  dismissed  the  case. 
The  great  trial  of  "  The  State  vs.  Job  Mai 
den  "  was  ended. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
IN    JANUARY    AND    MAY    TIME. 

HE    leaves    on    the    mountain    maples 
turned  early  that  fall.    The  touch  of 
bitter  frost  brought  forth  their  rarest 
colors.    The  snowflakes  fluttered  down  be 
fore  November  was  past;  fluttered  down  and 
softly  covered  the  furrows  and  brown  earth 
with  a  mantle  of  white. 

So  the  days  of  that  autumn  came  to  Job 
Maiden.  The  beauty  begotten  of  pain  crept 
into  his  face.  The  mantle  of  silence  and 
peace  hid  deep  the  scars  of  grief.  He  never 
talked  of  the  past  —  no  man  ever  dared 
broach  it.  The  children  at  their  play  in  the 
twilight  stopped  and  huddled  close  as  they 
saw  a  dark  form  climb  the  graveyard  hill, 
and  wondered  who  it  could  be.  Yet  he  did 
not  live  apart  from  the  world.  Never  had 
Gold  City  seen  more  of  him;  never  did  chil 
dren  love  a  playmate  so  much  as  he  who 
took  them  all  into  his  heart.  Yet  he  was  not 
of  them  —  all  felt  it,  all  saw  it.  He  was 
with  them,  not  of  them.  Up  higher  in  soul 
he  had  climbed  than  the  world  of  Gold  City 
could  go.  He  came  down  to  them  often, 
and  unconsciously  they  poured  their  sorrows 
at  his  feet,  and  he  comforted  them;  but 
when  he  went  back  into  the  secret  holy 
place  of  his  soul,  no  man  dared  follow. 

Up  at  the  old  ranch,  the  gray-haired,  feeble 
owner  sat  by  the  fire  watching  the  crackling 
logs  and  the  flames;  sat  and  thought  of  the 
years  that  were  gone.  Visions  of  childhood 
mingled  with  visions  of  heaven;  the  murmur 
of  voices  long  silent  with  the  words,  as  Job 
read  them  aloud:  "  In  my  Father's  house 


are  many  mansions.  I  go  to  prepare  a  place 
for  you."  Tony  still  sang  at  his  chores. 
Hans  was  still  at  the  barn,  Bess  still  neighed 
in  the  stable,  Shot  still  barked  at  the  door. 
But  the  old  home  could  never  be  quite  the 
same  to  the  brave,  manly  fellow  who  strode 
in  and  out  across  its  threshold. 

It  was  New  Year's  Eve.  Job  sat  by  the 
old  stone  fireplace.  The  household  had  gone 
to  rest.  The  clock  was  ticking  away  the 
moments  of  the  dying  year.  Outside,  the 
world  was  still  and  white.  With  head  in 
his  hands,  Job  waited  for  the  year  to  end. 

He  was  ten  years  older  than  when  it  had 
begun.  He  was  still  a  boy  then  in  heart 
and  years;  now  he  was  well  on  in  man 
hood.  Yosemite,  Glacier  Point,  Gethsemane, 
Calvary,  Jane  Reed's  grave,  were  in  that 
year.  He  longed  to  hear  its  death-knell. 
Yet  that  year  —  how  much  it  had  meant  to 
his  soul!  The  sanctifying  influence  of  sor 
row  had  softened  and  purified  his  life.  The 
abiding  Christ  was  with  him;  he  lived,  and 
yet  not  he  —  it  was  Christ  living  in  him. 

He  knelt  and  thanked  Him  for  it  all  — 
heights  of  glory,  depths  of  tribulation; 
thanked  Him  for  whatsoever  Infinite  Love 
had  given  in  the  days  of  that  dark,  dark 
year  now  ending.  The  clock  gave  a  warn 
ing  tick  —  it  was  going;  a  moment,  and  it 
would  be  gone  forever.  Into  his  heart  came 
a  great  purpose  —  the  purpose  to  leave  the 
past  with  the  past,  and  in  the  new  year  go 
out  to  a  new  life  —  a  life  of  love  for  all  the 
world,  of  service  for  all  hearts.  Over  his 
soul  came  a  great  joy. 

The  clock  struck  twelve.  Somebody  down 
the  hill  fired  a  gun,  the  dogs  barked  a  wel 
come  —  the  new  year  had  come.  The  school- 
house  bell  was  ringing,  and  to  Job  it  seemed 
to  say: 

"  Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 
Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be." 

The  young  man  rose  from  his  knees.  He 
went  and  opened  the  door.  The  white  world 
flooded  with  silvery  light  lay  before  him. 
The  past  was  gone.  He  stood  with  his  face 


82 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


to  the  future,  to  the  years  unscarred  and 
waiting.  Into  them  he  would  go  to  live  for 
others.  He  closed  the  doors,  brushed  back 
the  embers,  and  crept  softly  up  to  his  room, 
singing  in  a  low  voice  the  first  song  for 
many  months: 

"  Oh,  the  good  we  all  may  do. 
While  the  nays  are  going  by." 

All  day  the  drums  had  been  beating.  All 
day  the  tramp  of  martial  feet  had  been 
heard  along  the  Gold  City  streets.  The  sol 
diers  from  Camp  Sheridan  had  marched  in 
line  with  the  local  militia,  and  a  few  trem 
bling  veterans  who  knew  more  of  real  war 
than  either.  "  Old  Glory "  on  the  court 
house  had  been  at  half-mast,  the  children 
had  scattered  flowers  on  a  few  flag-marked 
graves,  while  faltering  voices  of  age  read 
the  Grand  Army  Ritual.  The  public  exer 
cises  in  the  town  square  were  over. 

The  sun  had  set  on  Decoration  Day  when 
Job  rode  Bess  up  once  more  to  the  old 
graveyard  where  Jane  lay.  Not  often  did  he 
come  here  now  —  he  felt  that  she  was  up 
among  the  stars;  it  was  only  the  shroud 
of  clay  that  lay  under  the  sod  —  yet  on  this 
day  when  love  scatters  garlands  over  its 
dead,  he  had  come  to  place  a  wreath  of  wild- 
flowers  on  her  grave. 

He  thought  of  that  night  when  he  had  first 
visited  this  spot.  How  far  in  the  past  it 
seemed!  He  could  never  forget  it,  but  he 
could  think  of  it  now  in  quiet  of  soul,  and 
feel,  "  He  doeth  all  things  well."  Reverently 
he  laid  the  wreath  on  the  grave,  knelt  in 
silent  prayer,  and  tarried  a  moment  with 
bowed  head.  Memories  sweet  and  tender, 
memories  sad  and  bitter,  came  back  to 
him. 

Just  then  he  heard  a  noise,  a  foot-fall 
opposite,  and  looked  up  to  see  a  tall  form 
supported  by  a  crutch  standing  with  bowed 
head. 

"  Why.  Dan!"  Job  said,  startled  for  a  mo 
ment. 

"Job!"  answered  a  trembling  voice. 

And    there    they    stood,    those    two    men 


whose  lives  met  in  the  one  under  the  sod; 
stood  and  looked  in  silence. 

At  last  Dan  spoke.  But  how  different  his 
voice  sounded!  All  the  scornfulness  had 
gone  out  of  it. 

"  Job,"  he  said,  "  Job,  I  knew  you  were 
here.  Many  a  night  I  have  seen  you  come, 
have  watched  you  kneeling  here,  and  hated 
you  for  it  —  yet  loved  you  for  it.  I  knew 
you  would  come  again  to-night.  I  came  to 
stand  beneath  that  old  pine  yonder,  and 
watched  you  lay  the  wreath  on  the  grave. 
I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  I  have  come, 
Job  — I  have  come  —  "  and  Dan.  yes,  Dan 
Dean,  faltered!  —  "  come  to  be  forgiven.  For 
years  I  have  dogged  your  footsteps,  hated 
you,  persecuted  you,  lain  in  wait  to  ruin 
you.  For  this  alone  I  have  lived.  God  only 
knows  —  you  don't  —  how  bad  I  have  been. 
But,  Job.  you  are  too  much  for  me.  The 
more  I  harm  you,  the  nobler  you  grow.  I 
have  hated  religion,  but  to-night  I  would 
give  all  I  ever  hope  to  own  to  have  a  little 
like  yours.  If  religion  can  do  for  a  fellow 
what  it  has  for  you,  there  is  nothing  in  the 
world  like  it." 

A  little  nearer  he  came,  as  Job,  hardly  be 
lieving  his  ears,  listened. 

"  Job,"  he  cried,  "  I  don't  deserve  it,  God 
knows!  I  have  wronged  you  beyond  all 
hope  of  mercy.  But  I  must  be  forgiven,  or 
I  must  die.  You  must  forgive  me.  I 
cannot  live  another  day  with  this  awful 
feeling  in  my  heart.  I  cannot  sleep  —  I  can 
not  work.  I  don't  care  whether  I  die  or 
not,  but  I  cannot  go  into  eternity  without 
knowing  that  you  forgive  me!" 

At  last  the  tears  came,  and  Dan  sank, 
crutch  in  hand,  beside  Jane's  grave. 

Job  could  not  speak.  For  a  moment,  only 
the  sound  of  a  strong  man's  sobs  and  the 
hoot,  of  an  owl  filled  the  air,  then  a  passion 
ate  cry  burst  from  Dan's  lips: 

"Tell  me,  Job,  tell  me,  is  it  possible  for 
you  to  forgive?" 

For  a  moment  Job  faltered.  He  could  see 
Trapper  Bill  pace  the  tepee  and  say,  "  Bill 
forgive  Mono  Indian;"  he  could  hear  the 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF    JOB. 


83 


Master  saying,  "  After  this  manner  pray  ye, 
Forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive 
those  who  trespass  against  us;"  and,  kneel 
ing  and  putting  his  arm  about  the  quivering 
form,  he  whispered: 

"  Dan,  I  forgive!" 

Long  hours  they  stayed  there,  praying  and 
talking,  till  Dan,  grown  quiet  as  a  child, 
looked  up  with  a  strange,  new  expression, 
and  said: 

"You  forgive  and  God  forgives!    Oh,  Job, 
this  is  more  than  I  ever 
hoped  for!  I  can  hardly 
stand  it!" 

It  was  Children's  Day 
when  Daniel  Dean  was 
received  into  the  Gold 
City  church.  No  one 
knew  what  was  com 
ing.  Job  rode  down 
from  the  ranch  with 
the  secret  hid  in  his 
heart.  It  was  a  lovely 
June  Sunday.  The 
roses  were  blossoming 
over  the  cottages,  and 
the  birds  sang  as  if 
wild  with  joy.  The 
mountains  were  cov 
ered  with  green,  the 
valleys  were  robed  in 
flowers,  and  golden 
plains  stretched  below. 

Old    friends    were 

greeting  each  other,  and  familiar  forms 
passing  in  at  the  church  door,  as  Job  led 
Andy  Maiden,  leaning  on  his  cane,  to  the 
family  pew.  The  church  was  a  bower  of 
flowers,  the  songs  of  birds  rang  out  from 
gayly  bedecked  cages,  and  the  patter  of 
children's  feet  was  heard  in  the  aisle. 

It  was  a  beautiful  service.  Music  of  voice 
and  organ  filled  the  air,  wee  tots  tripped  up 
to  the  platform  and  down  again,  saying  in 
frightened  voices  little  "  pieces  "  that  made 
mothers  proud  and  big  men  listen.  The 
pastor  brought  forth  a  number  of  candles. 


large  and  small,  wax  and  common  tallow, 
and  put  them  on  the  pulpit,  where  he  lit 
them  one  by  one,  showing  how  one,  lit  by 
the  flame  of  the  largest,  could  pass  along 
and  light  the  others;  how  one  life  lit  by  the 
fire  of  Jesus'  love  could  light  all  the  hearts 
around  it.  And  from  smallest  bright-eyed 
boy  to  gray-haired  Andrew  Maiden,  all 
knew  what  he  meant  by  the  transforming 
power  of  a  transformed  life.  It  was  then  that 
song  and  service  had  its  living  illustration. 


From  Glacier  Point,  Yosemite. 

It  was  just  as  the  preacher  finished  his 
sermon  and  asked  if  any  had  children  to  be 
baptized,  that  Job  arose  and  said  there  was 
one  present  who  had  come  as  a  little  child 
to  Christ,  and  who  wished  to  come  as  a  little 
child  into  the  church,  and  he  would  present 
him  for  baptism  if  he  might. 

The  preacher  gave  willing  consent,  and 
the  wondering  congregation  waited.  Job 
rose  and  passed  to  the  rear.  Every  head 
was  turned.  Then  he  came  back,  and  on  his 
arm,  neatly  dressed  in  a  plain  black  suit, 
came  poor,  crippled  Dan  Dean. 


84 


THE    TRANSFORMATION   OF   JOB. 


The  people  who  saw  that  scene  can  never 
agree  on  just  what  happened  then.  A  resur 
rection  from  the  dead  could  scarcely  have 
surprised  them  more.  It  is  said  that  they 
rose  en  masse  and  stood  in  silence  as  the 
pair  passed  down  the  aisle.  Then  someone 
started  up,  "  There's  a  wideness  in  God's 
mercy  like  the  wideness  of  the  sea,"  and  the 
whole  church  rang. 

Some  say  that  Dan  told  of  his  conversion 
and  his  faith  in  Jesus;  some,  that  Job  told 
it;  some,  the  preacher.  The  preacher's  tears, 
it  is  said,  mingled  with  the  baptismal 
waters,  and  the  noonday  sun  kissed  them 
into  gold,  on  that  famous  Sunday  when 
Daniel  Dean  was  baptized  and  received  as  a 
little  child  into  the  Gold  City  church. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

SUNSET. 

ONE  evening  soon  after  that  memorable 
Sunday,  Job  reached  home  rather 
late.  Putting  Bess  in  the  stall,  he 
said  a  tender  good-night,  crossed  the  square 
to  the  gate,  and  went  up  to  the  house  to  find 
it  strangely  still.  He  pushed  the  door  ajar 
and  saw  the  old  man  leaning  on  his  cane 
in  his  arm-chair.  His  white  locks  were 
gilded  by  the  setting  sun.  His  spectacles  lay 
across  the  open  Bible  on  the  chair  at  his 
side.  Job  spoke,  but  there  was  no  answer. 
Stepping  over  to  see  if  the  old  man  was 
asleep,  he  found  he  was  indeed  sleeping  — 
the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking. 

Just  at  sunset,  as  the  long  summer  day 
was  dying,  reading  that  precious  Psalm, 
"  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd,  I  shall  not 
want,"  the  weary  traveler  on  life's  long 
journey  had  finished  his  course  and  gone  to 
the  rest  that  remaineth  for  the  children  of 
God.  Beside  him,  he  had  laid  the  Book;  he 
would  need  it  no  more  —  he  had  gone  to  see 
the  Savior  "  face  to  face."  He  had  taken  off 
his  spectacles  —  the  eyes  that  had  needed 
them  here  would  not  need  them  in  that 


world  to  which  he  had  gone.  On  his  staff 
he  leaned,  in  the  old  farmhouse,  the  home  of 
many  years,  and  gently  as  a  little  child  falls 
asleep  in  its  mother's  arms,  he  had  leaned 
on  God  and  gone  to  the  better  Home. 

A  feeling  of  utter  loneliness  came  over 
Job.  The  last  strong  tie  was  broken.  That 
night  he  walked  over  the  old  place  in  the 
dim  light,  and  felt  that  heaven  was  coming 
to  be  more  like  home  than  earth. 

"  Waal,  the  old  man's  gone,"  Marshall 
Dean  said,  as  he  drew  his  chair  back 
from  the  table.  "  Mighty  long  wait  we've 
had,  Sally,  but  now  we'll  get  ready  to 
move." 

"Move!"  cried  his  wife,  "move!  Marshall 
Dean,  where  is  your  common  sense?  Don't 
you  know  the  whole  thing  will  go  to  that 
man  that's  no  kith  nor  kin  of  his,  while  we 
poor  relations  has  to  sit  and  starve!" 

"  Mother,"  said  a  voice,  "  I  think  Job  Mai 
den  has  a  better  right  to  the  place  than  we. 
He's  been  a  better  relation  to  the  old  man 
than  all  the  Deans  together,  if  I  do  say  it." 
It  was  Dan  who  spoke. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  way!  Bring  up  a  son.  and 
hear  him  talk  back  to  his  mother! —  that's 
the  way  it  goes!  Ever  since  ye  got  religion 
down  there  at  that  gal's  grave,  ye've  been 
a  regular  crank!" 

The  hot  words  stung,  but  Dan  remained 
silent. 

"  I  don't  care,  ma."  said  little  Tom,  "  I 
think  Job's  nice,  and  if  he's  boss  I'm  going 
up  there  every  day." 

"  Yes,  and  he'll  kick  ye  out,  or  do  the  way 
he  did  with  Dan  at  the  Yellow  Jacket  — 
set  a  parcel  of  soldiers  on  to  ye,  just  as 
if  ye  was  a  dog!"  sharply  retorted  Mrs. 
Dean. 

Dan  could  keep  silent  no  longer.  "  Mother, 
what  right  have  you  to  talk  that  way?  I 
deserved  all  I  got  at  the  Yellow  Jacket. 
And  I  shall  never  forget  that  when  my 
leg  was  hurt  and  the  surgeon  took  it  off, 
Job  came  in  and  nursed  me.  No  better  man 
ever  walked  the  earth  than  Job  Maiden, 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF    JOB. 


85 


and   not  one  of  the  Dean  family  is  wortb 
mentioning  in  the  same  breath." 

The  mother  cut  her  bread  in  frowning  si 
lence,  the  father  took  his  hat  and  left  the 
room,  while  little  Ross  said: 

"  Job  brought  me  a  lot  of  the  prettiest 
flowers  once  when  I  was  sick!  I  wish  he 
owned  all  the  flowers,  he's  so  good  to  me!" 

Just  then  Baby  Jim  climbed  into  his 
mother's  lap  and  said,  "  What's  '  dead.' 
mamma?  Where's  Uncle  Andy  gone?  Is 
you  goin'  there?"  And  the  peevish,  selfish 
woman  took  the  child  in  her  arms  and  went 
out  on  the  sunny  porch,  wondering  if  indeed 
she  was  ever  going  there;  whether  this 
something  which,  after  all.  she  knew  had 
so  changed  Dan  for  the  better,  was  for 
her. 

Down  at  Squire  Perkins'  that  night,  a  Chi 
nese  woman,  kneeling  by  her  kitchen  chair, 
prayed  that  riches  might  not  conquer  Job 
Maiden,  who  by  the  grace  of  God  had  stood 
so  many  of  life's  tests. 

On  the  streets  of  Gold  City  they  debated 
over  the  estate,  wondering  if  Andrew  Mai 
den  had  left  anything  for  public  charity, 
and  whether  the  new  lord  of  Pine  Tree 
Mountain  would  rebuild  the  mill  and  open 
the  Cove  Mine.  Pioneers  of  the  hills  met 
each  other  by  the  way  and  talked  of  how 
fast  changes  were  coming  in  Grizzly  county 
—  Yankee  Sam  gone.  Father  Reynolds  gone, 
and  now  Andy  Maiden.  They  shook  their 
heads  and  wondered  what  would  become  of 
things,  with  none  but  the  youngsters  left. 

Up  at  the  ranch,  Tony  crept  softly  across 
the  floor  and,  himself  unseen,  looked  in 
where  Job  sat  by  the  still  form  of  "  old 
Marse." 

It  was  over  at  last.  Under  the  pines,  close 
by  his  own  boy  and  Jane,  they  laid  him.  It 
was  a  strange  funeral.  Tony.  Hans,  Tim's 
father  and  Sing  bore  the  casket.  A  great 
throng  was  there.  The  man  whom  Grizzly 
county  had  once  hated  was  buried  amid  its 
tears.  Job  stood  with  bared  head  as  the 
preacher  said.  "  Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to 


dust."  and  turned  quickly  away,  feeling  that 
the  old  days  were  gone  forever. 

It  seemed  very  strange  that  night  to  hear 
Tony  say,  "  Marse  Maiden,  what's  de  work 
yo'  hab  for  me?"  He  walked  through  the  old 
house  and  then  went  out  again.  The  soul 
of  the  place  was  gone. 

Job  wondered  what  the  outside  world 
looked  like;  what  God  had  in  store  for  him. 
He  longed  to  leave  the  dead  past  behind 
him,  and  be  out  in  the  world  of  action  and 
mighty  purpose.  But  he  was  in  the  mem 
ory-world  still;  and  as  he  slept  that  night, 
there  came  the  friends  of  other  days  —  his 
blue-eyed  mother,  Yankee  Sam,  black-eyed 
Jane,  wan-faced  Tim,  the  old  man;  across 
his  dreams  they  came  and  went. 

Last  of  all  One  came,  the  seamless  robe 
enfolding  Him,  the  dust  covering  His 
scarred  feet,  the  print  of  thorns  on  His 
brow,  and  He  whispered: 

"  Lo,  I  am  with  you  alway,  even  unto  the 
end  of  the  world." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"AUF    WIEDERSEHEN." 

IT  WAS  two  days  after  the  funeral. 
Sing  had  set  things  to  rights  in  the  old 
parlor;  Tony  brought  in  a  bunch  of 
flowers;  and  Job,  leaving  Bess  saddled  by 
the  fence,  came  in  and  went  up  to  his  little 
room.  They  were  coming  to  hear  the  will 
read.  They  would  be  here  soon,  the  lawyer 
and  the  relatives  and  the  preacher  — for  it 
was  announced  that  the  old  man  had  left  a 
snug  sum  to  the  church.  Sing  and  Tony  and 
Hans,  arrayed  in  their  best,  waited  for 
those  who  were  coming. 

At  last  they  came  —  the  preacher  on  horse 
back,  in  his  long  coat;  Marshall  Dean  and 
his  wife,  in  their  best  attire,  followed  by  the 
nine  young  Deans  of  all  ages.  And  back 
of  all  was  Dan,  in  his  neat  black  suit, 
looking  paler  and  more  frail  than  ever. 
Into  the  prim  little  parlor  they  all  filed,  and 


86 


THE    2BANSFOBMAT10N   OF    JOB. 


sat  down  awkwardly  in  a  line  around  the 
room.  The  preacher  remarked  upon  the 
weather,  Mr.  Dean  said  it  was  an  uncom 
mon  warm  summer,  Mrs.  Dean  sent  Tommy 
to  get  her  a  newspaper 'to  use  as  a  fan. 

Just  then  a  horse  and  cart  drove  up,  and 
all  looked  out.  It  was  Aunty  Perkins. 
Why  she  had  come,  she  knew  not,  except 
that  Job  had  sent  for  her.  She  trotted  in. 
and,  with  a  little  curtsey,  said.  "  How  do? 
Hot  in  sun.  All  well?"  Next  came  Tim's 
father,  in  a  new  brown  suit  and  a  red  tie 
that  matched  his  hair.  Last  of  all,  Tom 
Reed  looked  in  sheepishly,  and  seated 
himself  outside  the  door.  All  sat  in  embar 
rassed  silence,  which  grew  painful  as  the 
moments  went  on.  Where  was  the  lawyer, 
and  where  was  Job? 

Finally  they  came  —  the  attorney  through 
the  gate  and  up  the  path  at  a  brisk  pace. 
Then,  dressed  in  a  neat  black  suit,  with 
black  tie  and  black  hat  in  hand,  and  looking 
for  all  the  world  as  he  had  years  before 
when  he  came  in  on  the  stage,  only  older 
grown,  Job  came  down  the  stairs  and,  with 
a  kind  welcome,  seated  himself  near  the 
door. 

The  lawyer  adjusted  his  spectacles  and 
broke  the  seal  of  the  document  in  his  hand. 
Hans  and  Sing  and  Tony  stood  in  the  open 
door,  a  picturesque  group  in  the  afternoon 
sunlight.  The  lawyer  rose,  looked  about, 
and  cleared  his  throat.  The  anxious  spec 
tators  leaned  over,  breathless.  It  had  come 
at  last!  Only  a  second  between  them  and 
some  substantial  remembrance  from  Andrew 
Maiden. 

The  will  was  in  the  usual  form,  but  it  was 
brief.  Slowly,  almost  haltingly,  he  read,  so 
that  the  words  fell  clearly  on  each  ear. 
This  is  what  they  heard: 


"  In  the  name  of  God,  Amen.  I,  Andrew 
Maiden,  a  native  of  Massachusetts,  a  resident 
of  Grizzly  county,  State  of  California,  being  in 
clear  mind  and  usual  health,  do  hereby  make 
my  last  will  and  testament.  I  hereby  bequeath 
all  my  property,  real  and  personal,  those  lands 
and  buildings  and  appurtenances  thereof  situ 


ated  in  the  county  of  Grizzly,  all  bonds  and 
moneys  deposited  in  the  Gold  City  Bank,  to  Job 
Teale,  who  for  many  years  has  lived  under  my 
roof  and  been  a  son  to  me.  All  things  that  by 
the  grace  of  God  I  own,  I  bequeath  to  him  and 
his  heirs  and  assigns  forever. 

( Signed )  "  ANOREW  MALDEN." 


A  stillness  almost  oppressive  filled  the 
room  as  the  last  word  fell  from  the  lawyer's 
lips,  as  the  name  of  the  last  witness  was 
read. 

It  was  what  they  had  expected  —  what  in 
all  justice  was  right  —  but  not  what  they 
had  hoped.  All  together  they  rose  to  go. 
The  preacher  was  saying,  "  Mr.  Maiden,  we 
hope  the  Lord  will  bless  these  riches  to 
your  good,"  Dan  was  looking  as  if  im 
pressed  with  the  extreme  justice  of  things, 
when  Job  arose  and  motioned  them  into 
silence.  There  he  stood  in  the  center,  stood 
and  looked  into  each  face. 

"  Wait,  Mr.  Lawyer,"  he  said.  "  I  have  a 
word  before  you  go.  Neighbors,  friends, 
1  have  something  to  say.  Fifteen  years  ago, 
the  man  whose  last  will  we  have  heard  to 
day  carried  me,  a  helpless  orphan,  across  the 
threshold  of  yonder  door.  From  that  night 
until  now,  I  have  called  this  home.  Fifteen 
years!  What  changes  they  have  brought! 
Dan  and  I  were  little  boys;  now  we 
are  men.  The  joys  and  sorrows  of  hu 
man  life  have  come  to  me  in  these 
years.  This  old  home  has  been  dear 
to  me;  I  love  every  nook  and  corner  of  it. 
These  well-worn  boards  are  holy  ground. 
Here  Andrew  Maiden  lived;  by  that  lounge 
he  became  a  changed  man;  from  that  old 
rocker  he  went  home  to  God.  By  yonder 
gate  I  first  met  her  whom  you  all  knew  and 
loved;  to  this  home,  torn  and  crushed  by 
life's  troubles,  I  have  fied  like  a  child  at 
dusk  to  its  mother's  arms,  and  in  these 
rooms  God  has  comforted  and  strengthened 
my  heart.  I  love  you  all.  Not  always  have 
we  seen  alike;  you  have  not  always  loved 
me;  but,  some  day,  we  shall  know  as  we  are 
known;  some  day  we  shall  see  face  to  face. 

"  I  love  these  old  mountains.    I  came  to 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF   JOB. 


87 


them  a  boy;  they  have  made  a  man  of  me. 
I  have  roamed  their  forests  and  climbed 
their  cliffs.  Every  spot  has  precious  mem 
ories.  Yes,  neighbors,  I  love  the  old  hills, 
I  love  the  old  home;  but  to-night  I  am  going 
far  away  from  them.  To-night,  before  the 
sun  sets,  I  shall  leave  the  old  scenes  forever. 
Here,  lawyer,  are  some  papers.  Read  them 
when  I  am  gone.  This  is  my  will. 

"  Parson,  you  will  build  a  new  church 
with  the  money,  and  somewhere  in  it  re 
member  the  ones  who  are  gone.  Tony,  Hans, 
Reed,  there  is  something  for  all  of  you. 
Dan,  the  old  place  is  yours;  keep  it  till  I 
come.  All  I  shall  take  is  Bess  and  my 
mother's  Testament. 

"  Farewell,  Dan.  Farewell,  neighbors. 
God  bless  you,  Tony;  and,  when  you  pray, 
don't  forget  me;"  and,  striding  across  the 
room,  Job  Maiden  was  gone. 


By  the  gate  he  tarried  a  moment,  put 
his  arms  round  Shot's  shaggy  neck  and 
kissed  him,  sprang  on  Bess'  back,  gave 
one  last  look  at  Pine  Tree  Ranch,  and  was 
off. 

There,  in  a  silent,  awed  group,  they  stood 
in  the  door-yard  and  watched  him  go 
through  the  pasture  gate.  Across  the  hills, 
the  sunset  and  the  twilight  fell  on  forest 
and  fields  and  hearts. 

That  night,  men  say,  a  dark  shadow  stole 
out  of  the  graveyard  at  midnight  and  gal 
loped  away.  Far  below  in  the  Coyote  Val 
ley,  where  the  road  to  the  plains  goes  down 
from  the  hill,  some  one  said  that  —  lying 
awake  near  the  window,  in  the  stillness 
which  comes  towards  morning  —  he  heard 
the  sound  of  horse's  hoofs  going  by,  and 
rider  and  horse  swept  on  far  down  the 
road. 


EPILOGUE. 


ON  PINE  TREE  MOUNTAIN  the  old  and  world-wide  service  he  treads  the  path 
house  still  stands,  its  windows  hid-  that  leads  to  "  palms  of  victory,  crowns  of 
den  beneath  vines.  Back  and  forth  by  the  glory."  In  the  joy  of  service  he  is  find- 
barns  Tony  slowly  moves.  By  the  gate  an  ing  the  peace  which  the  world  cannot 
old  dog  lies  waiting.  On  the  porch  a  frail  give  nor  take  away.  In  self-forgetfulness 
cripple  sits  in  the  twilight  and  looks  down  he  is  growing  daily  into  His  likeness,  until 
the  road.  But  the  one  they  wait  for  will  he  shall  at  last  awake  in  His  image,  sat- 
never  come.  Across  the  years  of  busy  action  isfied. 


88 


THE  TAKING  IN  OF  MARTHA  MATILDA. 


'BY  BELLE    KELLOGG    TOWNE. 


SHE  stood  at  the  end  of  the  high 
bridge  and  looked  over  it  to  where  her 
father  was  making  his  way  along  the 
river-bank  by  a  path  leading  to  the  smelter. 
Then  she  glanced  up  another  path  branch 
ing  at  her  feet  from  the  road  crossing  the 
bridge  and  which  climbed  the  mountain 
until  it  reached  a  little  adobe  cottage,  then 
stopped.  She  seemed  undecided,  but  the 
sweet  tones  of  a  church  bell  striking  quickly 
on  the  clear  April  air  caused  her  to  turn  her 
face  in  the  direction  from  whence  the  sound 
came. 

It  was  Martha  Matilda,  "TJraham's  girl," 
who  stood  thus,  with  the  wind  from  the 
snow-caps  blowing  down  fresh  upon  her, 
tossing  to  and  fro  the  slim  feather  in  her 
worn  hat.  and  making  its  way  under  the 
lapels  of  her  unbuttoned  jacket  —  Martha 
Matilda  Graham,  aged  ten.  with  a  wistful 
face  that  might  have  been  sweet  and 
dimpled  had  not  care  and  loneliness  robbed 
it  of  its  rightful  possessions.  Further  back 
there  had  been  a  mother  who  called  the 
child  "  Mattie."  But  now  there  was  only 
"  father,"  and  with  him  it  was  straight 
"Martha  Matilda,"  spoken  a  little  brusquely, 
but  never  unkindly.  Oh,  yes,  up  in  the  cot 
tage,  certain  days,  was  Jerusha,  who  did  the 
heavy  work  and  then  went  home  nights; 
with  Jerusha  it  was  plain  "  Mat."  Then 
there  was  Miss  Mary  down  at  the  school 
which  Martha  Matilda  had  attended  at  the 
time  when  loving  mother-fingers  "  fixed  her 
up  like  other  girls,"  and  Miss  Mary,  when 
speaking  to  the  child  "  running  wild  upon 
the  mountain  side,"  always  said  "  dear." 
But  Martha  Matilda  had  dropped  out  of  the 
day-school  and  out  of  the  Sunday-school. 


Somehow  she  had  grown  tired  of  trying  to 
keep  shoe-strings  from  breaking,  and  aprons 
from  being  torn,  and  if  she  was  just  home 
with  Towser,  such  things  did  not  matter; 
as  to  her  going  to  school,  her  father  did  not 
seem  to  care.  "  Guess  there's  no  hurry 
'bout  filling  so  small  a  head,"  he  would 
sometimes  say  when  Jerusha  pleaded  for 
school  with  Martha's  eyes  assenting. 

So  now,  Martha  Matilda  stood  listening  to 
the  chiming  of  the  Easter  bells  and  seemed 
undecided  as  to  her  next  move. 

"  I  know  Miss  Mary's  lily  is  there,  and  it's 
got  five  blossoms  on  this  year;  she  told 
father  so  down  at  the  store.  And  such  a  lot 
of  evergreen  as  the  girls  did  take  in  yester 
day!"  Her  face  was  still  turned  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  church  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
scraggly  mountain  town,  and  whose  spire 
pricked  through  the  dark  green  pinons  sur 
rounding  it.  "  I  ain't  fixed  —  I  ain't  never 
fixed  now."  And  she  glanced  down  along 
her  unbuttoned  jacket,  over  the  faded  de 
laine  dress,  to  her  shoes  tied  with  strings 
held  together  by  countless  knots.  "  It  seems 
awful  lonesome  to  be  home  on  Easter." 

She  pulled  out  some  brown  woolen  gloves 
from  the  pocket  of  her  jacket,  and  drew 
them  on  slowly.  .Her -fingers  crowded  out 
through  numerous  holes,  but  she  pushed 
them  back,  pulling  the  ends  of  the  gloves 
further  up,  and  drawing  down  the  sleeves 
of  the  jacket  in  an  attempt  to  leave  as  small 
a  part  of  the  woolen  gloves  in  sight  as  pos 
sible.  "  Father  wouldn't  care  —  he  never 
cares."  She  buttoned  her  jacket  hastily, 
settled  her  brown  hat  a  little  straighter,  ran 
fleetly  along  the  road  leading  toward  the 
church,,  and  breathlessly  climbed  the  rude 


THE    TAKING    IN    OF    MARTHA   MATILDA. 


steps,  together  with  a  half-dozen  other  girls, 
just  as  the  bell  threw  down  its  last  sweet 
tone. 

Some  of  the  girls  going  up  the  church 
steps  nodded  good  -  humoredly  to  Martha 
Matilda,  but  others  pushed  by  too  eager  to 
notice.  Martha  did  not  follow  the  girls  far 
up  the  aisle  of  the  church,  but  dropped  down 
into  an  empty  pew  near  the  door.  How 
spicy  and  nice  it  did  smell!  She  reached  up 
so  that  she  might  see  the  prettily-decorated 
altar  over  the  heads  of  the  ones  filling  the 
church.  Yes,  there  was  Miss  Mary's  lily 
with  its  five  blossoms  right  on  the  stand  by 
the  pulpit.  How  beautiful  it  looked,  show 
ing  above  the  evergreens  covering  the  altar- 
rail!  And  there  were  Mrs.  James'  gerani 
ums,  a  whole  row  of  them  —  no  one  but  Mrs. 
James  ever  had  geraniums  worth  much. 
And  there  were  two  little  spruce  trees,  one 
at  each  end  of  the  altar-rail,  with  their 
cones  all  on.  Hadn't  the  girls  worked, 
though!  But  the  boys  had  helped.  Lutty 
Williams  had  told  Martha  Matilda  all  about 
it  Saturday  evening,  going  home  from  the 
meat  market,  and  then  had  awakened  the 
first  desire  in  Martha  to  go  "just  for 
Easter "  to  the  school  she  had  dropped 
out  of. 

Martha  drew  a  long  breath  and  was  just 
falling  back  into  an  easier  posture  after  her 
extended  survey,  when  a  hand  touched  her 
shoulder.  "  I  thought,  dear,  you  would 
want  to  see  the  lilies;"  and  there  was  Miss 
Mary,  as  tall  and  sweet  as  a  lily  hei-self, 
with  a  brown  straw  hat  wreathed  with  cow 
slips,  and  a  blue  serge  dress,  neat  and  close- 
fitting.  "You  can  see  better  up  with  us;" 
and  she  drew  the  hand  with  the  brown 
woolen  glove  up  close  under  her  arm. 

"  Oh,  no,  Miss  Mary,  I  can't!  I  ain't  fixed! 
I  can  see  here."  And  the  little  girl  pulled 
herself  back  as  far  as  Miss  Mary^s  hold 
upon  her  allowed. 

"  Nonsense!  The  idea  of  your  staying 
down  here  alone!" 

There  was  such  sweet  insistence  in  Miss 
Mary's  voice  that  Martha  stood  on  her  feet 


and  allowed  herself  to  be  drawn  out  into 
the  aisle.  But  though  for  a  few  steps  she 
followed  with  evident  reluctance,  a  latent 
dignity  caused  her  to  free  her  hand  and 
walk  the  remainder  of  the  way  as  though 
of  her  own  accord.  A  cluster  of  girls  were 
watching  for  Miss  Mary's  coming  in  a 
square  pew  near  the  front. 

"  We've  saved  a  place  for  you  right  here 
in  the  middle,"  said  the  girl  nearest  the 
aisle,  as  their  teacher  came  to  them.  And 
then  they  shifted  this  way  and  that,  so  that 
"  the  place  "  was  widened  to  take  in  Martha 
Matilda  as  well. 

"  Doesn't  the  church  look  nice,  now  we 
have  it  all  fixed!"  asked  one  of  the  girls,  as 
she  nestled  up  close  to  Martha,  reaching  over 
her  to  speak  lovingly  to  the  teacher. 

How  cozy  Martha  felt,  sitting  there  right 
in  the  heart  of  it  all!  How  pretty  the  lilies 
were,  up  near!  And  to  think  that  her 
mamma  had  given  the  first  little  bulb  to 
Miss  Mary!  —  Miss  Mary  had  told  her  so 
one  day  at  school. 

But  as  Martha  was  reveling  in  the  sights 
over  which  her  eyes  roamed,  and  feeling  the 
sweet  comfort  of  being  nestled  close,  a  girl 
at  the  further  end  of  the  pew  broke  a  sturdy 
bit  of  rose  geranium  she  held  into  two 
pieces  and,  reaching  over,  laid  one  half  on 
the  brown  woolen  gloves. 

Looking  up,  Martha  met  a  smile  and  a  nod 
from  the  giver.  Thus  prompted,  a  lesson 
leaf  was  next  laid  upon  the  geranium 
branch  by  a  second  girl,  and  a  smile  from 
another  pair  of  eyes  met  Martha's.  After  a 
little  whispering  and  nodding  between  two 
girls  near  the  aisle,  one  of  their  open  sing 
ing  books  was  laid  on  the  lesson  leaf. 
"  That's  the  opening  song;  you'll  get  it  after 
the  first  verse  —  you  always  do,"  was  whis 
pered,  and,  with  a  nod,  the  giver  settled 
back  in  her  place,  and  the  one  at  her  side 
passed  her  book  along  so  as  to  make  it 
serve  for  two. 

Oh,  how  nice  it  was!  And  Martha  drew 
a  long  breath.  Then  seeing  that  the  holes 
in  her  gloves  showed,  she  tucked  them 


THE    TAKING    IN    OF    MAETBA   MATILDA. 


91 


further  under  the  singing  book.  This  called 
to  mind  the  broken  shoe-strings,  and  she 
moved  her  feet  back  out  of  sight.  But  even 
unmended  gloves  and  untidy  shoes  could 
not  mar  Martha  Matilda's  sweet  feeling  of 
comfort  —  poor  little  Martha  Matilda,  long 
ing  so  to  be  taken  in  somewhere,  but  hardly 
knowing  where  or  how! 

As  it  was  Easter  morning,  the  service  was 
given  to  the  children,  who  had  the  center 
of  the  church  reserved  for  them.  The 
superintendent  was  seated  by  the  side  of 
the  minister,  and  it  was  he  who  gave  out 
the  opening  song.  Martha  found  that  after 
the  first  verse  she  could  "  catch  it "  very 
easily,  and  this  joining  in  the  service  made 
her  feel  all  the  more  one  of  them.  The 
prayer  that  followed  was  a  different  prayer 
from  any  that  Martha  had  ever  listened  to, 
so  low  and  sweet  and  confiding  were  the 
words  spoken,  like  friend  talking  with 
friend.  The  second  song  Martha  joined  in 
at  once,  it  being  one  she  knew,  and  so  for 
getful  of  self  did  she  sing  that  more  than 
one  of  the  girls  nodded  to  her  appreciatively, 
and  even  Miss  Mary  looked  down  and 
smiled. 

After  this,  there  were  songs  and  recita 
tions  by  the  scholars,  some  of  them  Miss 
Mary's  own  class,  and  in  these  Martha  took 
great  pride.  Later,  the  older  ones  from  the 
primary  class  graduated  into  the  main 
room,  and  after  a  few  words  from  the  super 
intendent,  each  was  presented  with  a 
diploma  tied  with  blue  ribbon,  and  a  red 
Bible.  How  happy  the  children  looked  as 
they  went  down,  not  to  their  old  places,  but 
to  seats  reserved  for  them  among  the  main- 
school  scholars! 

The  services  closed  by  a  short  sermon  to 
the  children  from  the  minister  —  at  least  he 
called  it  a  sermon,  but  to  Martha  it  seemed 
just  a  tender  little  talk  from  a  big  brother 
who  loved  his  little  brothers  and  sisters  so 
that  he  could  not  keep  his  love  from  show 
ing,  and  who  loved  the  dear  Jesus  more 
than  he  loved  them.  Martha  had  never  been 
talked  to  like  this.  She  sat  forgetful  of 


everything,  even  the  woolen  gloves,  and  at 
times  the  minister  turned  her  way  and  it 
seemed  as  though  he  looked  straight  into 
her  heart.  Occasionally  he  touched  the 
lilies  at  his  side,  showing  how  one  may  grow 
like  a  lily,  expanding  to  take  in  Jesus'  love 
as  the  lilies  do  the  sunshine. 

Martha  went  home  as  though  treading  on 
air.  She  held  the  rather  wilted  s^ray  of 
rose  geranium,  and  the  lesson  leaf,  and  with 
them  was  one  of  Miss  Mary's  calla  lilies, 
broken  off  clear  down  to  the  ground  —  "  the 
loveliest  of  the  whole  five,"  the  girls  said; 
and  Miss  Mary  had  smiled  so  lovingly  when 
giving  it!  And  then  the  minister  had  come 
up  and,  laying  his  hand  on  Martha's  shoul 
der,  had  said,  "  It  seems  to  me  this  is  the 
little  girl  who  helped  me  preach  to-day  by 
paying  such  good  attention."  Then  Miss 
Mary  spoke  her  name,  and  the  minister 
said,  "  You  must  come  again,  my  dear." 
Oh,  it  was  all  like  a  beautiful  dream,  only 
nicer! 

Reaching  the  little  home  up  where  the 
path  terminated,  Martha  opened  the  un 
locked  door  and  passed  in.  The  sunshine 
made  a  warm  mat  on  the  floor,  and  the  cat 
was  curled  contentedly  upon  it.  Martha 
took  a  yellow  and  red  vase  down  from  the 
clock-shelf  and,  filling  it  with  water,  put 
her  lily  and  geranium  branch  into  it,  and 
placed  it  on  the  table  covered  by  a  red  table 
cloth,  and  partly  set  for  dinner.  The  effect 
was  not  quite  as  pleasing  as  she  expected, 
but  perhaps  the  rose  geranium  would  lose 
its  droopy  look  after  a  while. 

Before  taking  off  her  hat,  she  opened  the 
dampers  of  the  stove,  tilted  the  cover  above 
the  chicken  simmering  in  its  gravy  and 
pulled  the  kettle  further  back,  then  opened 
the  oven  door  to  find  it  just  right  for  the 
potatoes  Jerusha  had  in  waiting.  All  this 
done,  she  removed  her  hat  and  hung  her 
jacket  on  a  nail.  As  she  did  so,  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  herself  in  the  little  glass  over 
the  bureau.  It  was  not  pleasing  to  her. 
How  grimy  her  face  looked,  compared  with 
the  other  girls'!  And  their  dresses  had  lace 


92 


THE    TAKING    IN    OF    MAETHA    MATILDA. 


around  the  neck,  or  broad  collars,  or  some 
thing. 

Martha  whirled  around  and,  lifting  the 
hand  basin  from  its  hook  by  the  sink,  she 
poui'ed  some  warm  water  from  the  tea 
kettle  into  it,  carried  it  carefully  to  the  sink, 
loosened  her  dress  and  set  about  giving  her 
face  and  neck  and  hands  a  thorough  scrub 
bing.  This  done,  she  drew  a  long  breath. 
"Guess  that  fixes  that!"  she  said.  Then 
she  took  off  the  bit  of  soiled  ribbon  confin 
ing  her  braids,  and  taking  down  a  comb 
from  the  comb-case  near,  dipped  it  into 
water  and  drew  it  carefully  through  her 
hair,  after  which  she  divided  it  into  six 
strands  and,  giving  each  a  little  twirl,  stood 
for  a  moment  by  the  radiating  stove. 
Pi-esto!  Six  ropy  curls  danced  up  and  down 
as  their  owner  moved  to  and  fro  across  the 
room,  and  as  the  sunshine  fell  over  them 
their  beauty  lifted  the  little  girl  from  out 
her  plain  surroundings. 

She  laughed  as,  brushing  the  short  hair  up 
around  her  face,  and  dampening  it  before 
the  glass,  little  ringlets  nodded  around  the 
forehead,  modifying  its  squareness. 

"  It's  'most  too  fixed-up  to  wear  that  way 
«»very  day.  But  Lutty  Williams  fusses  with 
a  hot  iron  to  get  hers  so." 

Then,  a  new  idea  striking  her,  she  opened 
the  bureau  drawer  and  took  out  a  white 
apron  with  sleeves  and  long  strings.  It  was 
a  trifle  difficult  to  get  on.  and  still  more  so 
to  button,  but  at  last  this  was  done,  and 
the  strings  made  into  a  very  iiespectable 
bow  at  the  back.  Smoothing  it  carefully 
down  in  front,  Martha  was  disappointed 
to  see  that  it  did  not  reach  nearly  so  far 
over  the  brown  delaine  dress  as  she  had  ex 
pected.  She  took  no  thought  of  Jerusha's 
having  let  out  a  tuck  in  her  dress  since  the 
apron  was  last  worn. 

Martha's  gaze  now  reached  to  her  shoes. 
She  turned  to  the  clock,  and,  taking  out  a 
pair  of  shoe-strings,  sat  down  by  the  stove 
and.  removing  her  shoes,  threw  the  bits  of 
broken  strings  into  the  fire  and  threaded 
in  the  new  lacings,  tying  them  snugly. 


Lutty  Williams'  shoes  were  black  as  well  as 
her  lacings!  —  again  there  was  a  feeling  of 
disappointment. 

But  the  dinner  needed  her  attention,  so 
she  turned  to  finish  setting  the  table,  which 
Jerusha  had  arranged  in  part,  before  going 
home.  A  second  time  a  thought  seemed  to 
strike  her,  and  now  she  reached  to  the  top 
drawer  of  the  bureau  and  drew  forth  a 
white  table-cloth.  Carefully  she  placed  the 
vase  on  the  window-sill,  and,  taking  off  the 
dishes  and  putting  them  back  in  the  cup 
board,  removed  the  red  table-cloth,  folded  it 
and  placed  that,  too,  in  the  cupboard. 
Jerusha  did  not  think  much  of  white  table 
cloths,  but  it  was  Easter,  and  Easter,  the 
minister  had  said,  should  show  loving 
touches  throughout  the  home,  just  as  Jesus 
left  his  loving  touch  through  the  world. 

With  great  care  Martha  draped  the  table 
with  the  white  linen,  and  replaced  the  lily. 
How  beautiful  it  looked  now  in  its  new  sur 
roundings! —too  beautiful  for  the  hacked 
white  dishes  Jerusha  used.  So  a  chair  was 
placed  in  front  of  the  green  cupboard,  and 
with  precision  in  every  movement  the 
"  sprigged  "  dishes  were  gotten  down. 

"  Oh,  if  only  it  could  be  that  way  all  the 
time!"  Martha  Matilda  sighed,  standing  be 
side  her  carefully-arranged  table  with  shin 
ing  eyes.  But  the  potatoes  were  brown  and 
puffy,  and  the  hand  of  the  clock  reached  to 
just  half-past  one.  She  gave  a  glance  around 
the  room,  grabbed  her  hat,  and  was  off;  it 
was  time  for  her  to  meet  her  father  at  the 
bridge,  as  she  always  met  him  Sundays, 
when  dinner  was  ready.  No  matter  how 
much  John  Graham  might  enjoy  lolling  in 
the  sun  by  the  smelter  door  with  "  the 
boys,"  he  never  forgot  the  time  when  the 
brown  hat  was  to  be  met  down  by  the 
bridge.  "  A  little  close,"  was  often  said  of 
John  Graham.  "  A  trifle  sharp  in  getting 
the  best  of  a  bargain,  but  to  be  depended 
upon  every  time." 

Martha  saw  her  father's  faded  felt  hat 
bobbing  up  over  the  further  abutment,  and 
she  flew  across  the  bridge.  "  Oh,  I  am  so 


THE    TAKING    IN    OF    M AETNA   MATILDA. 


93 


glad  to  see  you!"  she  said,  catching  hold  of 
one  of  his  big  hands  and  covering  it  with 
both  of  her  small  ones,  as  she  danced  along 
beside  him. 

"  One'd  'most  think  I'd  been  to  Ingy,"  said 
the  man  in  Avhat  would  have  seemed  a  gruff 
voice  to  some.  Then  he  glanced  at  the  little 
figure  by  his  side,  and  said  in  just  the  same 
every-day  tone,  out  of  which  he  was  seldom 
drawn,  "  Might'ly  fixed  up,  seems  to  me." 

"  It's  Easter,  you  know,  pa.  I  went  to 
Sunday-school.  Miss  Mary's  lily  was  there, 
and  there  was  lots  of  evergreen,  and  the 
minister  said  I  helped  him  preach.  And  oh, 
pa,  you  don't  know  how  the  girls  did  take 
me  in!  They  sat  up  just  as  close!" 

"Take  you  in!    And  why  shouldn't  they?" 

"  But  you  know,  pa,  they  fix  up  so. 
And  —  "  The  little  girl  stopped,  seeming  to 
feel  it  somewhat  difficult  to  make  her  father 
understand  the  situation. 

"  So  it's  fine  feathers,  is  it?"  And  now 
there  was  a  decided  gruffness  in  his  voice. 

But  they  had  reached  the  door  of  the  cot 
tage,  and  the  cat  jumped  down  from  the 
chair  and  brushed  against  the  legs  of  her 
master.  There  was  tea  to  be  made,  and  the 
chicken  to  be  dished;  but  the  father  did  the 
latter,  after  having  washed  carefully.  The 
potatoes  were  given  the  place  of  honor  and 
the  two  sat  down  to  do  the  meal  justice. 

"  We  might  have  had  some  eggs,  seeing 
it's  Easter,"  said  the  man,  passing  one  of 
the  largest  potatoes  to  the  little  girl. 

"  Lutty  Williams'  mother  colored  hers. 
Lutty  said  I  might  have  one  of  them,  if  I'd 
come  over  for  it." 

"  Guess  I  wouldn't  go  to  Lutty  Williams' 
for  no  eggs,  if  I  was  in  your  place!"  said 
the  father. 

This  somewhat  dampened  the  little  girl's 
ardor,  and  the  rest  of  the  meal  was  par 
taken  of  in  silence. 

The  dishes  were  cleared  away  and  the  red 
table-cloth  replaced.  "  No  use  in  Jerusha's 
being  bothered,"  the  wise  Martha  reasoned, 
as  she  replaced  the  white  linen  in  the 
drawer.  Then  she  unbuttoned  the  big 


-gingham  apron  she  had  put  on  over  the 
white  one,  and  felt  inclined  to  send  the 
white  apron  after  the  table-cloth.  But  some 
thing  kept  her  from  doing  this.  "  It's  Easter 
anyhow." 

Her  father  had  taken  the  cat  on  his  lap, 
and  in  a  chair  tipped  back  against  the  wall, 
with  a  broom  splint  between  his  teeth,  sat 
reading  the  county  paper. 
•  Martha  stood  on  the  doorstep  looking  off 
to  the  mountains,  and  there  was  the  old 
wistful  look  on  her  face  again.  The  April 
sun  had  clouded  in,  and  so  had  the  bright 
spirit  of  the  child.  She  tried  to  draw  to  her 
the  warmth  that  had  been  holding  her  close, 
but  instead  there  rested  upon  her  a  dreary 
sense  of  loneliness.  Jerusha  wouldn't  wash 
white  aprons  every  day,  even  if  she  fussed 
to  put  them  on.  In  the  morning  her  father 
would  be  off  to  the  smelter.  The  same  old 
life  waited  for  her.  She  stood  for  a  long 
time  there  in  the  door.  Then  her  father 
reached  around  and  took  hold  of  her. 

"  What's  the  matter?''  He  had  heard  a 
sob.  And  though  the  little  girl  drew  back 
he  pulled  her  to  him.  "  You  ain't  cryin'  ? 
Hoity-toity!  A  white  apron,  and  hair  all 
fixed,  and  the  girls  taking  her  right  in,  and 
—  crying!" 

"But,  pa,  I  can't  make  it  stay.  Jerusha 
won't  wash  white  aprons,  and  there  ain't 
enough,  anyway  —  and  —  it's  so  lonesome 
here  with  just  Jerusha!  All  the  rest  of  the 
girls  have  some  one  standing  close  —  as  close 
as  that  to  them."  And  the  little  girl  clutched 
at  her  father's  coat-sleeve  to  demonstrate 
the  closeness  of  relationship,  while  the  sobs 
came  thick  and  fast. 

"Nobody  but  Jerusha!"  The  father 
brought  his  chair  down  from  the  wall,  and 
all  the  blood  in  his  body  seemed  to  rush  to 
his  face.  "  Nobody  standing  close!  Where 
be  I  standing?  What  am  I  going  to  the 
smelter  for,  putting  two  days  into  one,  if  it 
ain't  standing  close?" 

The  man  spoke  impetuously,  the  words 
tumbling  recklessly  one  over  the  other,  and 
the  little  girl's  sobs  were  tumbling  in  the 


94 


THE    TAKING    IN    OF    MAETHA    MATILDA. 


same  way;  neither  seemed  inclined  to  stop 
the  other. 

"  What'd  I  stand  in  front  of  Simonses 
show-window  last  night  for,  looking  at  them 
posies  they've  got  for  Easter,  if  'twasn't 
because  I'd  liked  to  have  brought  the  hull 
lot  home?  And  why  didn't  I  bring  'em 
home?  Just  so  as  I  could  slip  more  money 
this  month  in  under  the  little  bank  winder. 
And  what  am  I  slippin'  money  into  the 
bank  for?  Why'd  I  buy  them  Jersey  cows, 
and  that  bit  o'  mountain  park,  if  'twasn't 
because  I  knowed  Jerusha  was  the  best 
butter-maker  in  town,  and  butter  meant 
money,  and  money  meant  an  easy  time  for 
you  by  and  by?  Standin'  close!" 

The  man's  voice  broke.  The  little  girl 
had  ceased  crying  and  was  standing  with 
wide,  strained  eyes  fastened  on  her  father. 
What  did  it  all  mean? 

But  the  father  did  not  say  what  it  meant. 
As  one  suddenly  overtaken,  he  pushed  the 
cat  from  off  his  lap,  rose,  drew  a  long 
breath,  and  reached  for  his  hat. 

Had  Martha  Matilda  been  older,  she 
would  have  tried  to  detain  the  one  she  had 
wounded.  For  he  was  wounded,  just  as  are 
we  all  when  suddenly  there  comes  to  us 
knowledge  of  long-continued  effort  being  un 
appreciated.  What  was  the  use  of  all  this 
struggling,  beginning  with  the  day  and  clos 
ing  only  when  it  was  ended!  He  pulled  an 
oat  straw  from  a  stack  near,  and  then 
leaned  on  the  bars  of  the  cow-yard.  Far 
beyond  him  were  the  snow-caps,  now  pink 
with  the  setting  sun  —  the  glow  which  the 
one  gone  from  him  had  so  loved  to  catch. 
His  throat  ached  with  suppressed  emotion. 
He  had  striven  so  to  stand  true,  to  make 
the  life  of  the  child  she  had  left  easier  than 
hers  had  been,  just  as  he  had  promised! 

The  cows  crowded  up  restlessly  against 
the  bars.  It  was  milking  time.  Mechan 
ically  he  returned  to  the  kitchen,  brought 
back  with  him  the  pails,  placed  a  stool  and 
sent  the  tinkling  streams  against  the  shiny 
pail.  Pail  after  pail  was  filled  and  set  aside, 
then  with  a  gentle  pat  for  the  last  meek- 


eyed  Jersey,  he  brought  the  milk  back  to  the 
house,  strained  it  carefully,  tilled  a  saucer 
for  the  cat  at  his  feet,  rinsed  the  pails,  and 
after  the  cows  had  been  cared  for  for  the 
night,  went  back  and  hung  his  hat  on  its 
accustomed  nail.  He  crossed  to  the  window 
where  Martha  sat  stiff  and  uncomfortable 
in  the  big  rocking-chair.  Sitting  down  in 
front  of  her,  he  tilted  his  chair  forward  and, 
lifting  her  hands,  stroked  them  gently. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  it  all  out  down  by 
the  cows.  It  ain't  right."  He  did  not  look 
at  the  face  of  the  little  girl,  only  at  the 
hands  he  was  stroking.  "  It  wasn't  because 
I  wanted  to  break  my  promise  to  your  ma 
—  it  wasn't  a  bit  of  that.  You  see  the  road 
was  too  hard  for  your  ma;  it  is  always  go 
down  or  go  up  here  in  the  mountains,  and 
then  it  was  always  a  little  more  money 
needed  than  we  had.  And  when  you  came 
she  couldn't  bear  to  have  the  strain  touch 
you,  and  almost  the  last  thing  she  said  was, 
'  You'll  malw  it  easier  for  her,  she's  such  a 
little  tot.'  It  wasn't  because  I  meant  to 
wriggle  out  of  my  promise  that  made  me 
pretend  not  to  see  when  your  shoes  gave 
out  and  your  dresses  got  old  and  things  in 
the  house  didn't  run  straight;  it  wasn't 
that." 

There  was  a  great  sob  in  the  voice  now, 
and  Martha,  hearing  it,  looked  up  to  find 
her  father's  rugged  face  wet  with  tears. 

"  Oh,  pa,  don't!"  and  the  child's  arm 
reached  around  her  father's  neck  and  she 
put  her  face  close  against  his  cheek. 

But  the  man  shook  himself  partially  free, 
as  he  brushed  the  tears  from  his  face. 

"  And  you  think  as  how  there  ain't  been 
any  love  in  it,  when  it's  been  all  love!  You 
see,  the  trouble's  here:  In  trying  to  make 
an  easier  road  for  you  than  your  mother 
had,  I  looked  all  the  time  at  the  further  end 
instead  of  the  nigh  end.  And  I  was  so 
afraid  that  when  you  got  further  on  there'd 
be  no  backing  for  you,  that  I  left  you  with 
out  a  backing  now.  But  we  will  start  right 
over  new.  I  haven't  just  kept  my  promise, 
'cause  your  mother  meant  it  to  be  at  this 


• 


THE    TAKING    IN   OF    MARTHA   MATILDA. 


95 


end  and  right  straight  on.  And  that's  how 
it  should  be.  We'll  start  over  new.  It  ain't 
ever  too  late  to  stop  robbing  Peter  to  pay 
Paul.  You  go  straight  down  to  Simonses 
to-morrow  morning,  Martha  Matilda." 

The  little  girl  was  looking  at  him  now 
with  cheeks  flushed  with  eager  attention. 
She  go  down  to  Simonses!  But  her  father's 
words  held  her  again. 

"  And  you  buy  just  as  many  of  them 
posies  as  you  want,  and  you  get  enough  to 
make  a  bunch  for  every  one  of  them  girls 
as  took  you  in,  and  you  take  'em  to  them, 
and  tell  them  that's  your  Easter  gift." 

"  But  pa  —  " 

"  There  ain't  no  '  but  pa '  about  it!  And 
you  fix  a  bigger  bunch  for  Miss  Mary,  and 
get  a  shiny  ribbon  and  tie  round  it  —  that's 
the  way  your  mother  fixed  posies  when  she 
wanted  them  nice  —  and  you  tell  Miss  Mary 
that's  for  her  Easter.  And  then  you  go  to 
the  minister's  —  " 

Martha  clapped  her  hands  over  her  lips  to 
keep  back  a  cry  of  surprise.  She  go  to  the 
minister's! 

"  Your  mother  always  went  to  the  minis 
ter  when  anything  was  wanted.  And  you 
tell  him  John  Graham  wants  that  pew  that 
he  had  when  the  church  was  first  built  — 
Number  25,  on  the  east  side,  by  the  second 
window  —  the  one  that  looks  out  on  the 
mountains.  Your  mother  and  I  put  a  sight 
of  work  and  good  hard  money  into  the 
building  of  that  church,  and  I  ought  to 
have  stood  right  by  it  all  along  and  not 
dropped  out  just  because  Sunday  clothes 
cost." 

"  Oh,  pa,  did  you  help  build  that  church?" 

"  Guess  there's  plenty  round  as  would  tell 
you  so,  if  you  asked,  though  this  minister 
don't  know,  'cause  he's  new." 

"  Say,  pa,  can't  I  have  a  .red  Bible?  Of 
course  it  wouldn't  be  just  like  getting  into 
Sunday-school  regular,  like  the  primaries, 
but  I  would  like  a  red  Bible." 

"There  it  is  again!  All  wrong.  There's 
your  mother's  Bible;  I  hain't  meant  not  to 
give  it  to  you,  only  I  was  a-keepin'  it  till 


the  further  end  of  the  road  came  when  you'd 
'preciate  it  better." 

John  Graham  got  up,  and  taking  down  a 
half-filled  lamp,  lighted  it.  the  little  girl 
keeping  close  at  his  side.  From  that  same 
upper  bureau  drawer  he  took  out  a  small 
package  and,  undoing  the  handkerchief 
wrapped  around  it,  brought  to  view  a  Bible 
with  a  gilt  clasp. 

"  It  ain't  a  red  Bible,  but  it's  a  Bible  that 
has  been  read,"  he  said.  "  And  here's  your 
name,  just  as  your  mother  wrote  it  for  you, 
almost  the  last  time  she  handled  it." 

He  opened  the  fly-leaf,  and  little  Martha, 
drawing  up  close  to  his  arm,  read: 


"  Oh,  pa.  how  I  am  being  taken  into 
things!"  said  the  little  girl,  the  tears  top 
pling  over  her  eyes,  and  her  cheeks  bright 
and  rosy. 

And  then  the  father  took  Martha  on  his 
lap  and  talked  to  her  of  her  mother  —  of 
the  life  she  had  lived,  and  of  the  Bible  she 
read,  and  of  the  God  she  loved;  talked  to 
her  as  he  had  never  talked  in  all  her  ten 
years.  When  he  had  ended,  she  put  her 
arms  around  his  neck  and  held  him  close. 
The  clock  struck  eight  and  the  father  arose, 
lighted  the  little  girl's  candle,  and  she 
mounted  the  crooked  stairs  to  the  small 
room  above.  Setting  down  the  candle,  she 
made  herself  ready  for  bed,  buttoning  on 
the  little  white  night-dress  made  of  flour- 
sacks  and  with  blue  XX's  on  the  back,  but 
which  "  looked  all  right  in  front,"  as  Jeru- 
sha  said.  This  done,  she  blew  out  the  light 
and,  drawing  aside  the  bit  of  muslin  curtain, 
gazed  out  on  the  clear  Colorado  night,  with 
the  stars  glimmering  through.  A  moment 
she  stood  thus,  then  she  pressed  her  hands 
over  her  face,  and  bowing  her  head  said, 
soft  and  low: 

"  Be  a  good  girl,  Mattle." 


95 


THE    TAKING    IN   OF    MARTHA    MATILDA. 


How  sweet  the  words  were  when  voiced! 

"  I  will  be  a  good  girl  —  I  will,"  she  mur 
mured,  and  her  voice  was  tender  but  strong 
of  purpose.  As  she  laid  her  head  down 
upon  the  pillow  she  whispered,  "  How  I  be 
taken  into  things!" 

And  Martha  Matilda  never  knew  that 
down  in  the  big  chair  the  one  she  had  left 


sat  with  his  hand  covering  his  bronzed  face, 
motionless.  The  ticking  of  the  clock  was 
the  only  sound  heard.  When  he  arose,  the 
lamp  had  burned  itself  out,  and  the  room 
stood  in  darkness.  But  he  failed  to  sense  it. 
Within  him  had  been  kindled  a  light 
brighter  than  an  Easter  dawn.  John  Gra 
ham  was  ready  to  take  up  life  anew. 


FEB  1  0  1917 


DATE  DUE 


PRINT  ED  IN  U.S.A. 


3  1970  00674  5845 


iiiii  ISTnTSSi NAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

A  A      000309245    9 


